


What If I Came Knocking?

by micksgotkicks



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Magic, BAMF Margo Hanson, Happy Ending, M/M, Modern Royalty, there's a some baby angst but it's mostly fluff cuz it's the ~holidays~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micksgotkicks/pseuds/micksgotkicks
Summary: Quentin Coldwater is an aspiring author without a novel. Eliot is a prince who hasn’t gotten around to being crowned king.When Quentin’s job at Brakebills Inquirer sends him undercover to Eliot’s home in the small country of Fillory, their paths cross in unexpected ways. Swept up into a world of royalty, party planning, and enough nerdy references to fill up a feature length film, Quentin finds himself right at home. But when he starts to fall for the prince, he must choose between his career in New York and his new life in Fillory.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 39
Kudos: 110
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art: What If I Came Knocking?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748978) by [Melleh17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melleh17/pseuds/Melleh17). 



> little late with this because of car trouble but here's the cheesy holiday fic! be sure to check out the _phenomenal_ art melleh17 did for chapter 2 on [tumblr](https://tah-fcking-dah.tumblr.com/post/189597502627/art-for-what-if-i-came-knocking-by) as well
> 
> a HUGE shoutout to abbey for beta reading and calming me tf down when i almost decided to restart the whole thing
> 
> lots of holiday love to all you magicians fans out there <3

Quentin Coldwater was seated across from Henry Fogg for the fourth time in all his years working for the Brakebills Inquirer. 

He fidgeted in his chair, digging his nails into the wood of the armrest and pointedly not making eye contact with his boss. 

_He was nervous._

The last time he’d been in here was a year ago after someone posted a video of him drunkenly making out with his coworker Alice at the office holiday party. Fogg had read them two lines from company policy about fraternizing with fellow employees and then kicked them out immediately after. 

He hated bringing people into his office just about as much as people hating being in here.

It wasn’t as though working for Brakebills was a dream job, anyway. Quentin had always thought that if he’d give up his dreams of being an author and sell out to some big journalism company it would be Fuzzbeat; he’d much rather be writing articles ranking the famous Chrises and making quizzes about which Marvel character wanted to date you than work for the online newspaper single-handedly responsible for the downfall of at least three big name celebrities.

Quentin had been the newly graduated introvert with a major in Creative Writing and a minor in Journalism, however, and being twenty-two and jobless wasn’t exactly on his list of things he wanted to be doing with his life. Not to mention his best friend had gotten a job at Brakebills as well.

Three and a half years later, Julia had moved on to bigger and brighter things (in particular, a thriving travel blog and Instagram account that she ran with her girlfriend) and Quentin wasn’t any farther into his manuscript than he had been back in high school.

Instead of some career as a New York Times Bestselling author, Quentin was awkwardly slumped in a chair on the other side of Fogg’s desk.

“Mr. Coldwater.”

Quentin blinked.

Fogg stood up, heaving a sigh and adjusting his ill-fitting suit jacket.

“Three months ago, we lost our best investigative journalist.”

“Three months and two weeks,” Quentin said, instantly regretting it.

Fogg ignored him.

“Subscription rates have dropped. They’ve been dropping for years now but in the last three months we’ve lost over 8% of our paying users.” Fogg started pacing the tiny office. “The board isn’t happy. I’m not happy. The McAllisters aren’t happy.”

Quentin had never met any members of the elusive McAllisters, but he knew their old money family was the Brakebills Inquirer’s lead investor among a pool of younger, nouveau riche backers.

While he hadn’t had that many different jobs in his life, it wasn’t hard for Quentin to put the pieces together.

“Am I getting fired?” he blurted out.

Fogg stared at him. “What? No, of course not.”

Quentin breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re a good writer, Quentin. Journalism needs more people like you.”

 _Not a morally bankrupt asshole?_ Quentin thought but smartly, kept to himself.

“Irene McAllister came to me directly with a potential story,” Fogg said, “Have you ever heard of Fillory?”

Quentin gave a stilted nod. He’d heard the name before; it was a small, European country that fell somewhat awkwardly between an absolute and a constitutional monarchy.

“The country of Fillory lost its High King and the High Prince has a large social media following, so his coronation is set to be the talk of Millennials and Gen Z kids around the world,” Fogg continued, “But the prince is a scandal waiting to happen and Irene has informed me there are rumors of abdication.”

Quentin’s eyes widened.

“Given Fillory’s unconventional government structure, no clear next-in-line has been named for the throne yet.” Fogg gripped the back of his chair. “This could be the story of the century.”

“And you want me to write about it?” Quentin asked.

Fogg raised a pointed eyebrow, an uncharacteristic grin on his face. “We’re sending you to Fillory next week to cover the story. We want you to go undercover, sneak around, do whatever it takes to get a scoop.”

Quentin didn’t like this. It was one thing to write a speculative piece about a rich celebrity, but messing with a foreign government? It seemed like the wrong, albeit very American, thing to do.

“I’m not sure—”

“This isn’t a request, Mr. Coldwater,” Fogg said, “Unless you actually want to leave this office without a job.”

Quentin gulped. “Right.”

He left Fogg’s office feeling slightly queasy and itching to take his Adderall.

“What did Fogg want to see you about?” Alice asked when he returned to their shared cubicle.

“Nothing much,” Quentin lied, not meeting her eyes. “Just some foreign news story they’re shipping me off to write.”

Alice’s head whipped up from her computer screen. “They’re sending _you_ to cover the Fillorian story?”

“Hey,” Quentin said with a frown, not much bite in his tone.

“Sorry,” Alice said, “I’m just surprised is all. Don’t you prefer fluff pieces?”

“Fogg doesn’t seem to care what I prefer.”

Alice’s eyes scanned her desk, as they always did when she was thinking about what to say next, and she adjusted one of her many potted succulents.

“Maybe I’m jealous.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “You? Jealous? Never.”

Alice swatted him.

When Julia still worked for Brakebills, her and Alice had constantly been competing for the hard-hitting (or at least, as hard-hitting as gossip newspapers could get), investigative stories. 

There’d been a mutual respect; they were civil, but Quentin hadn’t talked to Alice much out of loyalty to his childhood friend.

After Julia quit, though, Quentin and Alice had gravitated towards each other. They’d even tried dating for three, disastrous weeks, but that had gone about as well as both of them had expected. Quentin just wasn’t as ambitious as Alice; he was too soft, she’d said once, as kindly as she could. And Alice was logical and smart and ticked all the boxes of a nerd guy’s fantasy girl, just not for Quentin.

They sat comfortably in the close co-workers box now, and that was much better than any of Quentin’s other exes, so he couldn’t complain.

“You’d better tell me everything when you get back,” Alice said, managing to sound only half as threatening as she usually did.

Quentin sighed. “You’ll never let me live it down if I don’t.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Alice cleared her throat.

“You could ask Fogg to give me the story instead.”

Quentin glanced at her over the computer monitor. She met his gaze without flinching. Classic Alice, always unafraid to ask for what she wanted.

“I would if I could,” he lied. _He could. He wanted to, even._

Alice was better at these types of stories than he was, but Quentin wasn’t known for being a risk-taker, and he couldn’t risk his job.

“You know how Fogg is.”

Alice’s lips set in a thin line as she looked back down at her screen. Her silence said it all.

Quentin stared at her a beat longer, unsure of exactly what Alice wanted from him. She was upset, that was all he could tell.

Fogg’s words hung in his mind. _Unless you actually want to leave this office without a job._

Sure, maybe Quentin had left with his job, but if he couldn’t impress with the Fillory story, he probably wouldn’t have one for long.

~

“Wait, you’re going to be _where_ this week?”

Julia was yelling at him through FaceTime, her image grainy and lagging on Quentin’s phone screen.

“Fillory.”

“No way.”

Quentin laughed, dropping onto his couch with a bag of white cheddar popcorn in his free hand. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s not, I swear,” Julia said, failing to hide a snort, “But Kady picked up extra work there next month and I was thinking of going with her since, you know, it’s gonna be the holidays and all.”

Quentin had only met Kady once and she had scared the living shit out of him (and he meant that in the most complementary way possible). She was hired security, though, so it was sort of her job to intimidate people. And if her job meant he’d get to see Julia next month then so be it.

“Think you’ll still be there by December?” Julia asked.

“I doubt I’ll be able to sneak around that much by then.” Quentin shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You’re nosy by nature.”

“Being nosy and being a spy are two very different things. I’m not James Bond.”

Julia snorted. “I knew that much.”

Quentin chucked a piece of popcorn at the camera.

Julia slumped back against the expensive-looking couch, her tank-top and jeans a stark contrast to the elaborately decorated room she was in. The perks of having a girlfriend with a swanky career as a celebrity bodyguard meant living it up in hotel rooms their college selves wouldn’t have dreamed.

She grinned at him. “I can’t believe it, my little Q all grown up and writing stories to save the newspaper.”

Quentin groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Even without the pressure of losing his job and the Brakebills Inquirer going under, sneaking around an honest to fuck palace to provide Fogg with gossip material was not how he wanted to spend the holidays.

Julia shrugged. “At least we’ll get to experience the coveted Fillorian Winterfest. I hear it’s booze and sugar for three days straight.”

Quentin tucked his legs underneath him on the couch cushion. “Well I heard it’s all about giving away free money. Did you know Fillory is the fifth wealthiest country in the world?”

“Maybe you could find a hot Fillorian to marry. You could finally quit Brakebills and finish your novel.”

“I’m not about to marry myself off like a 19th century heiress,” Quentin said.

Julia wiggled her eyebrows. “I was thinking more along the lines of getting a Fillorian sugar daddy.”

Quentin flushed instantly. “Jesus, I’m not that desperate for sex.”

“It’s not even about the sex, Q,” she said, and that familiar worried look crossed her face.

He knew she meant well, she always did, but after so many hospital visits throughout high school and college, seeing that face made him itch to hang up the call and crawl under his covers like he was eight again.

“I want you to be happy,” Julia said.

“I’m fine, Jules, I swear.”

Julia shot him a half smile, barely noticeable through the pixely image.

“But you’re not happy.”

Quentin opened his mouth and immediately closed it again. 

What could he say to that? Of course, he wasn’t happy. His best friend was thousands of miles away, the only co-worker he could tolerate was his ex-barely-but-not-even-girlfriend, and he depended on an average nine-to-five job he didn’t even like to pay his bills.

Quentin wasn’t anywhere in the realm of being happy, but he wasn’t as bad as he used to be. He was better, or at least, that’s what he told himself when he took his pills every morning.

“I know romance isn’t everything,” Julia said, “But you should have friends, you should go out to the movies and coffee shops and clubs like people in their twenties are supposed to do.”

Quentin couldn’t help but laugh, despite it sounding brittle and forced. “I think you got your idea of what people do in their twenties from a shitty CW show.”

“You deserve to be happy, Q.”

That was the problem; he knew he deserved happiness, which was a far cry from his attitude just two years ago, but instead of being suicidal and dread waking up every morning, Quentin had to face one mundane day after another.

It wasn’t the kind of life he wanted to live, but could he really complain?

“Q?”

Julia cut through his pitiful reverie.

“Sorry, uh, I was just thinking about everything I have to do before I leave,” he lied. “I should probably get going.”

Quentin could see her look of disappointment, even though she was trying to hide it.

“Fine, but you’ll text me when you get there?” Julia asked, and he was thankful she dropped the subject.

“Of course,” he agreed, “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Hey, you know I love you.”

Quentin nodded. “I know.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Julia promised before hanging up the call, leaving Quentin to the deafening silence of his apartment.

Shoving his conversation with her aside, Quentin blasted music through his laptop and reopened the Wikipedia page on Fillory he’d been scanning before Julia had called.

Fillory was a small but surprisingly modern country. Wealthy, progressive, and peaceful, it really seemed like the perfect place to live.

“Maybe I should just pack up and runaway there instead,” Quentin mumbled. He knew he couldn’t possibly afford to live in a place like that, however, not with only an unpublished unfinished novel to support himself.

He familiarized himself with the Fillorian government. It was run similarly to older European monarchies; a High King was in charge but kept in check by the High Council. The title of High King was passed down through the blood line, but the official successor could be any person of noble status who the King and Council felt had earned it.

The current High Fillorian Family had held the throne for nearly a century now, though.

Quentin clicked through images of the Waughs, from High King Constance, the first of the Waughs to take the throne, to High King Evelyn, who had been the country’s most beloved ruler until his death in 1966, and finally to High King Stephen, whose death had left Fillory without a High King for almost a year now.

The current High Prince and last of the Waugh family line was a man named Eliot. Quentin had seen him before, on magazine covers as he passed the newspaper stands and on Alice’s computer screen as she wrote up her latest article.

Most people knew who Eliot Waugh was; he had been in the spotlight since he was young and had become the Prince Harry of Quentin’s generation.

Eliot was social media savvy and very much the definition of cool, or so Quentin had heard. He knew he probably wasn’t the best person to be judging what was cool.

Eliot was also the rebel of the family. His two older brothers had both been prime candidates for the throne but when one abdicated and the other died in a brutal car crash, the title of High Prince fell to him.

Although he’d always been considered the wild one of the family, Eliot’s scandals became more and more publicly criticized after he became High Prince.

Quentin clicked through some of the pictures, ranging from Prince Eliot cleanly shaven with a wide smile and a three-piece suit, to him sneaking out the window of some archduke’s summer home, disheveled and completely shirtless.

“Why does he have to be part of the most photogenic monarchy ever?” Quentin grumbled, slumping further down the couch.

Most royal families weren’t even that attractive, but all the Waughs seemed to have an uncanny ability to look flawless on camera, no matter how they were dressed.

With a heavy sigh, Quentin closed the rest of his tabs on Fillory. He probably should have been packing, like he’d told Julia. He opened YouTube instead, settling on an episode of Fuzzbeat Unsolved and letting Sean and Rydin’s bickering lull him into a fitful sleep.

~

The week passed in a haze, the way things always did whenever you fell into a tedious schedule with the building anticipation that something big and important was coming that would completely wreck that schedule.

Quentin was the type to quietly complain on Twitter or to Alice about constantly being stuck behind a desk of a shitty job, but as soon as he was asked to step outside of his box, he would shut down.

There was a simmering panic in his gut, making him feel queasy as he packed his suitcase the night before the trip. It followed him to the airport, on the plane, in the car to the hotel, and even into the fucking palace tour Fogg had booked him.

And Jesus, the moment he’d arrived at the palace, Quentin knew he was in over his head.

To be more accurate, he knew he was in over his head the moment he stepped out of Fogg’s office, but it was one thing being told you were going to the home of a famous royal family and another to actually be there.

He rubbed his hand _—god, why was he so fucking sweaty?—_ against his jeans and accepted the map of the palace the tour guide was handing out.

His hair was still damp from the rushed shower he’d taken that morning. His flight had gotten in late and he’d collapsed onto the fluffy hotel bed without so much as taking off his socks.  
Quentin felt out of place among the well-dressed tourists, despite the camera hanging from around his neck by a thick strap. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans among a crowd dressed in semi-formal attire.

Whitespire Palace was exactly as grandiose as Quentin had expected. It was all arching ceilings, lavish tapestries, and rooms three times the size of his apartment. Although the palace was old, decorated from various time periods he couldn’t place (he was a writer, not an architect or interior designer), there were areas that were very modern.

“The entire West Wing was remodeled in 2001 to make the palace more comfortable,” the tour guide—Todd—said, bubbling with just as much enthusiasm as he had 45 minutes ago when the tour had begun.

He led Quentin’s group through the ballroom and into the entrance of the West Wing.

“The royal family has always lived in the western quarter of the palace and most of their beds are facing East,” Todd explained. “Ancient Fillorians believed going to sleep with your back to the sun gave you good luck, and many modern day Fillorians still practice this tradition.”

A woman with thick glasses and a long, brown ponytail raised her hand.

“When did Whitespire close down its servant quarters?” she asked.

Todd beamed. “Great question! The servants’ living spaces were removed about fifty years ago. Most of the palace workers live on the lower floors in the West Wing. Almost all the bedrooms and guest rooms are in the West Wing after the palace’s first big renovation in the 60’s. That’s also when the security shelter was added in case of bomb threats.”

Quentin slipped his phone from his pocket and opened his email. Just this morning, he’d received one from Irene McAllister, forwarded to him by Fogg, with a detailed list of what exactly was expected of him during the assignment.

 _Sneak off during your tour and explore the palace_ seemed like it was vaguely illegal, and what was he supposed to if he got caught? Say he was looking for the bathroom? 

Whatever happened, Quentin was never one to hold up under the pressure of interrogation.

He raised his hand and Todd perked up.

“You in the back. You had a question?”

Quentin nodded sheepishly.

“I was just, uh, wondering where the bathrooms were?”

Todd visibly deflated. “They’re just down the hall, I can have one of the guards show y—”

“I think I’ve got it.” Quentin was booking it back the way their group had come before Todd could say anything else.

He wasn’t exactly sure where he was supposed to go. Obviously wandering the West Wing seemed like his best bet if he wanted to find the ‘juicy gossip’ Fogg was so fixated on.

It was basically just a really big, glorified house, how hard could it be?

~

The palace was bigger than Quentin had anticipated.

Which, totally on him, he’d looked up the layout at home and he knew Fillory was known for being ridiculously liberal with their architecture, but what could a kid who’d grown up in a house in New Jersey really expected?

Quentin stumbled through the halls, ditching the camera behind a large vase and praying to whoever the hell would answer that if he just found the exit, he would give away all his material belongings and become a monk or something.

 _If he got caught, he was fucked,_ Quentin thought, just as he got caught.

He ran directly into a woman dressed impeccably in a bright pink blazer. Her silky hair was pulled back and she was a bit shorter than him in stature, but that didn’t make her any less imposing.

There was a gold-plated name tag pinned to her jacket that read Margo in swirly font.

Margo looked him up and down, brightly painted nails tapping against her clipboard. She surveyed him with what seemed like suspicion. Quentin wanted to scramble for an excuse but was unable to think of one.

She finally shattered the defining silence with snap of her fingers. “You must be my new assistant. Brian, right?”

Quentin opened and closed his mouth like a fish while Margo stared at him, eyes wide and impatient.

“Uh, it’s Quentin,” he managed to stutter out, “But I’m not—”

“You’re American? I can tell from the clothes. I’ll get you something better to wear; best thing about leaving California for here was that I was opened to a whole new world of fashion.”

“I could be Canadian.”

Margo paused to look him up and down again. “You’re not Canadian.”

She plowed on, despite Quentin’s weak protest.

“Normally I’m not one to delegate but Fillorians don’t do anything half-assed, so this Winterfest Ball needs all the help it can get.”

Margo grabbed him by the wrist, walking with purpose back down the hallway and dragging a cautiously complaint Quentin behind her. She continued about the ball and dates and arrangements Quentin couldn’t even begin to process.

Maybe assistant was a good cover. Maybe this was exactly the kind of position he needed to be in to get the scoop and get the hell out of Fillory. Margo obviously had some sway in things around here, if she oversaw as much as she seemed to.

This might just be easier than he thought.

Margo stopped suddenly, whirling around to look Quentin in the eyes again.

“If you do exactly what I say, when I say it, this should be a piece of cake, okay?”

She smiled in a way that made it seem like she was in on a big secret Quentin wasn’t part of.

He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

And without any interview or pomp and circumstance, Quentin was an assistant.

Margo was a hurricane, that is, if a hurricane scared people into working efficiently rather than just fleeing their homes.

“Do you have a room yet?” she asked him.

“No? I’m staying at a hotel.”

“I’ll have Rafe bring your stuff over immediately.” Margo wrinkled her nose. “Todd didn’t show you to your room?”

Quentin thought back to the tour group he’d ditched. “I think he was running a tour.”

Margo grimaced. “Fucking Todd. He was the one who insisted we start providing tours in the first place, you know?”

Quentin guessed from her dark tone that the tours weren’t popular with the rest of the palace’s occupants.

“Don’t get me wrong, we have a thriving tourism culture and all that shit, but only nerds give a limp dick about the history of the country they’re visiting on vacation.”  
He couldn’t really argue with that, as he was both a nerd and cared a limp dick about history, even when he took a vacation.

“It’s those fucking paparazzi and gossip magazine writers that piss me off the most,” Margo said, and Quentin felt his blood run cold.

“What’s that have to do with the tours?”

“They love using them as an excuse to sneak around and take pictures of Eliot and the rest of the High Council, which is a huge invasion of our privacy.”

Quentin swallowed. “Right, yeah, I can see why you wouldn’t like that.”

Margo paused, shooting him a funny look, and not for the first time that day, Quentin was sure he had been found out.

“You’ll have to get used to being photographed, if you’re going to be running around with me all day,” she finally said.

Quentin breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s fine.”

Margo appeared satisfied enough with his answer, and not too keen on pressing him with any more questions for the time being.

He followed her around the palace, silently praying they didn’t run into Todd’s tour group. Quentin liked to think he was being a decent spy, and lying wasn’t something he was terrible at, but it wasn’t like he’d had a lot of practice.

She wasn’t the High Queen, despite Quentin’s initial assumption. Eliot wasn’t married, though, so she took on most of the work a spouse normally would. She also managed Eliot’s schedule, coordinated all palace related events, and monitored the palace staff ( _basically the Alfred to Fillory’s Bruce Wayne,_ his mind supplied).

“I’ll introduce you to some of the other permanent staff tomorrow,” Margo said, “But until then, come to me if you have any questions. I’m basically the closest thing Fillory has to a High Queen, emphasis on high.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. “Are you the heir?”

He wondered if an heir outside of the family would constitute as a scandal, since the Waughs had ruled for so long and there hadn’t been a non-family king in years.

“Fuck, no, the High Council would flip their shit.”

“I thought it was allowed?”

Margo shot him a pointed look. “Just because it’s allowed doesn’t mean it happens.”

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know, you seem like you know what you’re doing. You’d make a great king.”

“Don’t I know it.” It was muttered under her breath, but Quentin could hear her loud and clear.

“I’m serious,” he said.

Margo was giving him that funny look again, something that straddled the precarious line between amused and baffled.

“I like you, Q.”

Quentin felt his cheeks heating up. “Uh, thanks.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

~

A full day as Margo’s assistant and he already felt more adjusted than he had during his entire three years at Brakebills. Maybe it was the fact that he was doing something vaguely interesting with his life for once, or maybe it was that he actually liked Margo.

In all fairness, Margo was a much better boss than Fogg. Where Fogg always seemed disinterested in what was going on in the office, Margo was studiously involved in all the comings and goings of the palace. 

If he wasn’t on a high stakes undercover mission, he would’ve begged her to come replace Fogg.

It was evident that Margo was determined to push Quentin out of his comfort zone. Although, push might’ve been too kind of a word; it was more like launch Quentin right out of his comfort cannon and into a ship that was aptly called _Things That Make Quentin Uncomfortable That Don’t Bother Normal People._

And that’s why he stood outside the High Prince’s chambers, to make sure he was at the Winterfest meeting on time. 

Quentin wasn’t sure why someone didn’t just buy him an alarm clock.

 _The Winterfest Ball is the biggest event of the year,_ Margo had explained, _It’s normally one of those rich people only events, but Eliot insisted on opening it up to anyone who wants to come. It was his idea, so he’d better put his balls to work._

Quentin didn’t presume to understand what kind of working relationship Margo and the prince had, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to.

He knocked once on Eliot’s door, and no answer.

Quentin glanced down the hall to his left, then to his right. There was a grumpy looking guy near the window at the end of the hall who’d accosted him with a frown and demanded to see an ID (luckily Margo had set him up with one that afternoon).

He sighed and knocked a second time and still, no reply.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pulling a key from his pocket.

Margo had pressed it into his hand when they’d taken a break to go out for dinner with explicit instructions to _drag Eliot’s ass out of bed if he had to._

He’d really been hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

Quentin fumbled with the key a few times; for a country adamant on displaying how modern it was, he was surprised that they still used old-fashioned keys on the doors rather than key cards.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been expecting when he opened the door, but it definitely wasn’t Eliot Waugh lounging on the edge of the couch with a man between his legs.

He’d seen enough _Downton Abbey_ to hope that, just fucking maybe, Eliot had a valet who helped him remove his shoes…at seven in the evening...while shirtless. It was a better thought than walking in on the highest ranking official in the Fillorian government getting a blow job.

Quentin was sure his face was bright red.

“I, uh,” he stammered, hand still clutching the door handle like it was a lifeline. He should’ve bolted the moment he’d opened the door, but Quentin was frozen in place.

The High Prince of Fillory gave the other man a nudge against his shoulders. The man shot a glare in Quentin’s direction, but reached for his shirt that was crumbled on the floor and tugged it on.

“Sorry, sorry,” Quentin choked out, “I was just about to—”

“It’s alright,” the prince said, and Jesus, his voice was so smooth Quentin almost melted on the spot.

He leaned against the back of the couch, fishing a cigarette from the pocket of his maroon bathrobe. “Brendon was just leaving.”

“Brian.”

“Whatever.” His eyes didn’t leave Quentin’s as Brian slinked out the door, shooting another glare as he left.

“I’m Eliot,” Eliot said, as if he didn’t know thousands of people around the world googled him on a daily basis.

He rested the cigarette between his lips and got to his feet.

“Who are you?”

Quentin hadn’t realized he’d been staring and tried helplessly to recover.

“I’m Quentin.” He held out a hand, but Eliot didn’t take it.

He quickly added, “Coldwater. Quentin Coldwater.”

He said it before he could think better, inwardly cringing at how he sounded like a pathetic version of James Bond. Using your real, full name during an investigation was probably something they discouraged in spy school.

Eliot coughed, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. “ _Quentin Coldwater?_ ”

Quentin stomach dropped. _He knew, he knew who he was and why he was here and that he wasn’t actually Margo’s assistant and—_

“That’s quite a name,” Eliot said, and Quentin breathed an internal sigh of relief. _Of course, the High Prince of Fillory didn’t know who he was. He was a nobody. Thank god._

“My friends usually call me Q.”

Eliot scanned him again, less critically than Margo had, but not any less intimidating.

Clearly, he wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood, so despite his better judgement, Quentin pushed on.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you,” he said, trying desperately to keep his eyes on anything other than Eliot. “Margo told me to, uh, drag you out of bed if you didn’t come to the door.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed and he suddenly looked a lot less welcoming than he had before. “Right, okay, Quentin. I see Margo hasn’t told you.”

He stood up again, striding towards Q with a confidence that quickly reminded him that he was dealing with literal royalty.

Eliot stood over him— _holy shit, he was so much taller than he was in the pictures_ —with his cigarette balanced artfully between his long fingers.

“Margo is allowed a certain, shall we say _leeway,_ as my most trusted mega bitch and closest confidant,” he said, flourishing the last word with a pretentious accent.

“You, Quentin, are not Margo.”

Eliot took another drag from his cigarette, not dropping his gaze. He raised an eyebrow, seemingly waiting for a nod or a curtsy or however the hell he wanted Quentin to reply.

“I think I’d notice if I was Margo.”

Quentin regretted the lazy attempt at a joke as soon as it left his lips, but it made Eliot pause. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before his eyebrows knitted together and his lips quirked down into a frown.

As clever comebacks go, it wasn’t a particularly good one, but a High Prince obviously wasn’t used to his staff not groveling at his feet.

“Margo wants you in her office by seven thirty,” Quentin said, and turned on his heel.

He was out the door and down the hall before Eliot could say anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for mention of past suicide attempt and child abuse. both are not explicit and don’t go into much detail but they come up briefly in conversation.

“I’m impressed, Coldwater.”

Quentin dropped his phone on his face, scrambling to sit up.

Margo was perched at the end of his bed, which was way too big to be a goddamn staff room thank you very much. She had a grin like a cat and reached over to pat his leg.

“Why are you in my room?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Are you always this tense?”

“Only when people sneak into my room without knocking.”

Margo examined her nails. “You’re ballsy-er than I thought. I’ve never had Eliot come to me so animated about a new hire.”

Quentin felt his throat close. Eliot must’ve told her what had happened.

“Don’t stress your tits,” Margo said, before he could protest. “He liked you.”

Quentin balked at her. “His, uh, Highness said that about me?”

“Christ, just call him Eliot. He doesn’t need another cute boy bowing down to him, his ego is big enough as it is.”

Quentin felt his cheeks heat up as he recalled his first and, thankfully, only encounter with the prince so far. “I don’t think he was my biggest fan after, uh…”

“Eliot’s hard to read sometimes,” Margo admitted, “But trust me, I wouldn’t be telling you this if it wasn’t true.”

Somehow, Quentin struggled to believe her.

“C’mon,” she said, giving him a nudge. “We have shit to do and I want to introduce you to a few people.”

Quentin got dressed and ran a hand through his hair; he wasn’t really sure what the dress code of a royal assistant was, but it surely couldn’t be too far away from a pair of jeans and a button down.

Despite Margo’s comment about Eliot, Quentin was thankful they didn’t see much of him over the next few days.

Instead, he was hauled around by Margo as she told him various details about the upcoming Winterfest Ball. Apparently, the final day of the festival, Eliot was going to officially announce his coronation date.

 _Maybe the rumors of abdication had just been rumors,_ Quentin thought, cautiously relieved that he wouldn’t have to do any more digging into it if what Margo told him was true.

There were dozens of names and faces that Quentin couldn’t even begin to memorize and thankfully, didn’t have to.

“There are only a handful of important people you actually need to remember,” Margo explained to him one afternoon, “Not because they’re better than, say, the kitchen staff or the maids or some elitist shit like that. Your job just demands you know who the hell I’m talking about when I bring them up.”

Quentin nodded dumbly, which he’d been doing a lot since he’d arrived. It wasn’t that he felt dumb or that Margo was making him feel that way, in fact, underneath the creatively explicit language and no-bullshit attitude, she was nice to be around. Quentin felt like he belonged here, which wasn’t something he was used to feeling.

Still, it was like he was the Cady to Margo’s Janis as she dragged him into the kitchens.

“Q, meet our very own, Ratatouille caliber chef.”

A blond man dressed in a bright pink apron, who looked a bit more like your local weed dealer than a royal chef, put down a mixing spoon and turned to them.

“I resent that,” he said, although he was smiling. “I can cook much better than a rat.”

Margo crossed her arms. “You’re right, but the rat cooked faster.”

“True art takes time, Margo.”

Margo was grinning at him, face free of the placating expression it usually had when she interacted with the rest of the staff.

“This is Josh,” Margo said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, he can get you weed. No, we are not fucking, but neither of us are opposed to the idea.”

Josh raised his eyebrows at her. “We aren’t?”

Quentin tucked his hair behind his ear. “I wasn’t gonna ask that.”

“You were,” Margo said, “At least about the weed. He looks the part.”

Quentin made a mental note to come visit Josh at some point, you know, for research purposes.

Margo reintroduced him to Todd, or _The Living Equivalent of the Smiley Face Emoji,_ as Margo so eloquently put it. Although his official title was _Visitor Services Director,_ Margo said that when they’d released an advertisement for the job, the position had been dubbed _Warden._

“Weren’t you in my tour group a few days ago?” Todd shot him a skeptical look.

“Well, I, uh, yes, but—”

Margo draped a hand over his shoulder. “Q’s working on his confidence issues.”

“I don’t have confidence issues,” Quentin argued. “I’m just introverted.”

Both Todd and Margo stared at him.

“I have some confidence issues,” he amended.

Quentin also met the maids, Janet, Poppy, and Eve, the Head of Treasury, Benedict, as well as a handful of the security team, Gavin, Victoria, and Penny, the ladder of whom had been the grumpy guard who’d accosted him when he’d gone to wake up Eliot.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Quentin said.

“You seem like you listen to Taylor Swift,” Penny replied.

Quentin couldn’t tell if that was an insult or not. He did listen to Taylor Swift sometimes, but who didn’t? _Shake It Off_ was a good song and it was catchy, dammit.

His days went by in a blur, with Margo parading him around the palace. He also was given a tentative schedule for the ball she wanted him to type up.

Just when he thought they’d met everyone, they caught up with two men who were striding down the hallway. The taller one was struggling to keep up with the first and the shorter one, who was sporting a thick mustache, had an air of importance that rivaled even Eliot’s.

“Tick!”

Both men screeched to a halt. Quentin was once again reminded that, although Margo wasn’t technically royalty, she wielded an almost scary amount of power that struck fear into the hearts of half the palace staff. 

Or something like that. It was impressive, though.

“This is Tick Pickwick, of the High Council,” Margo said, sounding less than impressed as she gestured to the mustached man. 

Tick stood up straighter, if that was even possible, as he already had the posture of the King of England.

“And that’s Rafe,” Margo motioned to the man at his side, “Tick’s assistant.”

Rafe gave a nervous wave and Tick surveyed him with an upturned nose.

“A pleasure,” he said, implying it was anything but.

When they were finally out of earshot, Margo leaned a bit closer and whispered, “They’re like a less attractive, morally ambiguous version of us.”

“And we’re supposed to be morally good?”

“I know I fuck with you, but the High Council is a pain in the ass,” she said, “They’ve got almost as much power as El, but they actually use it.”

“Isn’t the king allowed to replace them?” Quentin asked, recalling the Wikipedia article on Fillorian government. There was a process and paperwork, but the High Council members were advisers first and foremost, and if the king didn’t feel he was getting the proper advisement, he could select someone else.

“Eliot’s not king yet, though,” Margo said.

“And you think Tick doesn’t want Eliot on the throne?”

“Oh no, it’s worse than that. Tick wants him to be the _perfect_ king.”

She said perfect with a venom, like it was the tip of the dagger the council wanted to use to plunge into Eliot’s back.

“You don’t think he’d make a good king?” Quentin was surprised, even though he hadn’t gotten off to a good start with Eliot, even he could tell from everything he’d read that he had potential.

“That’s not it,” Margo said, “It’s just that the High Council wants to fuck him every which way, and sex jokes aside, Eliot doesn’t deserve to be pushed around by them.”

Quentin put the pieces together. “They treat him like he’s still a child.”

Margo sighed. “Eliot has to get his balls together, there’s no doubt about that, but he can’t do that with Tick breathing up his ass about what a shit replacement he is for his father.”

Quentin knew a thing or two about not living up to people’s standards, but he couldn’t even imagine what that was like for the heir to an entire goddamn country.

“Lucky he has you, then,” Quentin said.

Margo snorted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Lucky’s fucking right, Q, I don’t know what he’d do without me.”

They walked in silence after that, Quentin glancing at her every so often. 

Margo was in a tough position, and while he didn’t want to presume he knew her best just because he was a white guy who’d managed to become her friend, he respected her. She wanted what was best for Eliot, she cared about Eliot, and to Quentin, caring about someone was probably the noblest thing anyone could do.

~

His first week in Fillory kept him so busy with his fake job as Margo’s assistant that Quentin almost forgot he had a real one.

It took him two and a half days to work up the nerve to check his email.

It was mostly junk, though he skimmed through a draft from Alice she’d wanted him to read.

 _Not to tell me if it’s good or not,_ she always would say whenever she had Quentin read her articles, _I know it’s good, I just want a friend to read it._

He’d surprised himself with how little he’d thought of Alice since he’d arrived. As doomed as their relationship had been from the start, Quentin has always sort of wished things had worked out. He’d thought that if he could settle down with Alice, maybe he could accomplish something bigger like finishing his novel.

Quentin knew projecting his idea of Alice onto her wasn’t the grounds for a healthy relationship, platonic or otherwise, but sometimes he couldn’t win against his innermost thoughts.

They worked well together, sometimes, but Quentin never really felt like himself around her, and Alice didn’t need someone trying to fit her into a mold, like a relationship with her was some box to check off.

Finally, Quentin opened the three emails from Fogg, two forwarded directly from Irene McAllister.

Just as he’d begun to scan the first email’s contents, his phone vibrated with Fogg’s contact.

“Hello?” Quentin answered, picking at a thread hanging from his pants.

“Mr. Coldwater, it’s a relief to find you’re still alive.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “We were beginning to think you’d forgotten about the article.”

Quentin wished he’d forgotten about the article, but it wasn’t as easy as dodging calls and ignoring emails.

He decided to cut to the chase. “I got a job in the palace.”

There was a pause, and Quentin held his breath. 

“That’s...not bad, I’ll admit,” Fogg finally said.

Quentin collapsed in the chair next to his bed, shoulders sagging in relief.

Fogg continued. “What have you been able to find so far?”

“The Fillorian Winterfest is looking to have its biggest turnout ever,” Quentin said, hoping the news would distract Fogg from the gossip he was so desperately looking for. “The palace is opening their annual party to all Fillorian citizens—”

“Anything on the prince?” Fogg interrupted.

“No, uh, not really. From what I’ve seen, the High Prince’s coronation will be proceeding as planned.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want this article to be a success.”

Quentin swallowed thickly. “That’s the thing, sir—” he never called Fogg _sir_ unless the situation absolutely called for it “—I’m not sure this whole gossip article is such a good idea.” 

”What are you talking about? It came straight from Irene and she’s worked with her father for years. They know exactly how to run these sorts of magazines.”

“But—”

“Our online traffic is projected to double, _double,_ with the release of the Fillorian special. Do you understand what that could do for this company?”

Quentin rubbed his eyes. “I understand,” he parroted back.

“Good,” Fogg said, “Then go out there, do your _real_ job, and get me a story.”

He wanted to remind Fogg that he specialized in fluff pieces, not fucking investigative journalism, if you could even call it that, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I’m expecting big things from you,” Fogg said, and Quentin felt sick.

He hung up and threw his phone on the bed. He felt horribly guilty and the tight feeling in his chest made it difficult to breath.

Quentin thought about calling it quits and messaging Alice to come take his place. She would’ve gotten something that would sell by now, hell, she wouldn’t be having a fucking panic attack right now. Alice was too good of a journalist to let fondness get in her way; she had ambition and she wasn’t ashamed of it.

But the idea of letting somebody else come into the palace, talk to Margo and the rest of the staff just to exploit their knowledge for a fucking article made Quentin’s chest tighten. They were people, just like him, and they didn’t deserve to be spied on.

Maybe if he was the one to betray them, it would soften the blow. Maybe he could control the narrative and keep people from getting hurt.

When he’d calmed down, Quentin called Julia, but the call went straight to voicemail.

 **Actual Goddess: (10:57p.m.):** _Kady and I just got back from the casino. I’ll call you tomorrow?_

Quentin had forgotten Kady had taken a job in Monte Carlo that week. Julia had offered to bring him along, back before he’d been assigned to Fillory, but what was he supposed to do there for fun? Play third wheel until he could swap places with his British heir look-alike like Selena Gomez did in that one movie?

Monte Carlo wasn’t exactly his scene, anyway, not that Quentin had a scene.

 **Quentin: (10:59p.m.):** _don’t worry about it. i was just checking in, have fun! :p_

It always unnerved Julia that Quentin refused to use emojis, but sometimes a good, old-fashioned emoticon expressed how he was feeling better than 157 emoji options ever could.

 **Actual Goddess: (11:01 p.m.):** _Love you, Q._

 **Quentin: (11:01 p.m.):** _< 33_

Quentin considered texting Margo, but he was feeling too guilty to talk to her.

Instead, he ended up sprawled on the bed, wide awake despite the late hour and wishing everyone at Brakebills would just forget he existed.

~

Quentin was nervously wandering the halls, on his way to bring Eliot a late lunch at both Margo and Josh’s insistence, when he heard a familiar voice.

“Your Highness, if you don’t mind me saying—”

“I very much do mind, Tick, whatever the hell it is.”

Quentin tucked himself in one of the many alcoves lining the hallway. It was as if this palace was made for spies, what with all the little hiding places he’d come across so far.

He peeked his head around the corner to see Eliot and Tick in a stand-off. Or, Tick was in a stand-off, his shoulders squared and a determined look on his face. Eliot just looked bored.

“You have yet to name a successor,” Tick continued, “And you’re the only one left of your bloodline who can provide an heir.”

Eliot scoffed. “You know kids have never been on my list, for more reasons than one.”

They had moved into Eliot’s chambers, but Quentin could still hear them loud and clear. He slipped further down the hall, daring to peek around the corner into the prince’s room. Eliot and Tick were still glaring at each other, but now on opposite ends of the room.

“That may be, sire,” Tick said, his words dipped in ice, “And whether you adopt or name one of your advisors as an honorary heir doesn’t matter, but the Waughs, unofficial or otherwise, have sat on the throne of Fillory for almost 100 years.”

“I appreciate the history lesson,” Eliot bit back.

“I will not allow your family’s name or mine to be tarnished because the High Prince insists on acting like a child.”

Eliot crossed his arms but stayed silent. It seemed uncharacteristic of him and Quentin could tell he was losing ground in the argument.

Tick cleared his throat. “What would your father say?”

Something flashed in Eliot’s usually indifferent demeanor and his arms dropped to his sides.

“Get out.”

Tick frowned. “Your Highness—”

“Get the hell out of my room, Tick, before I call the guards on you.”

Tick seemed baffled. “They wouldn’t—”

“Penny would.”

Quentin ducked back around the corner, unable to see what was happening next, but it was clear Tick had conceded as he came storming out a few seconds later.

He heard a crashing sound, and it didn’t take Sherlock to deduce that Eliot had thrown something very breakable across the room.

“FUCK!”

Quentin knew he should’ve left; this clearly wasn’t a moment Eliot was looking to share with anyone. But Quentin had been there before, or at least, some semblance of where Eliot was now, and he had very much not wanted to be alone.

He stepped out from around the corner.

The door was still open, but he gave it a soft knock with his knuckles.

“Uh, Your Highness?”

It felt weird on his tongue and despite Margo’s insistent that he just call Eliot by his name, Quentin didn’t want to piss him off more than he already had.

“I’m not in the mood, Quentin,” Eliot said. He was sitting on the couch, feet planted on the floor and head in his hands.

Quentin was just surprised he’d remembered his name. That was probably Margo’s doing.

“Josh sent me with food,” he said, lamely.

Eliot looked up at him. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked Quentin up and down before shaking his head.

“M’not hungry.”

Quentin ignored him and placed the tinfoil wrapped plate on the end table next to him.

“There’s cornbread. Josh said it was your favorite.”

Eliot didn’t reply.

“I can leave, if you want to be alone,” Quentin finally said.

“No!”

Quentin froze.

Eliot seemed sheepish, a look that didn’t fit him at all. “I mean, would you stay? Just for a bit?”

Quentin looked between Eliot, the plate of untouched food, and the broken vase he’d just noticed in the corner of the room.

“I know I was an asshole to you,” Eliot said, “But you can sit down, if you want.”

Quentin nodded mutely, closing Eliot’s door before moving to settle on the opposite end of the couch. It still baffled him a bit that someone would have a couch in their bedroom, even if they were a prince.

Eliot sighed, crossing the room to where two large cabinets and a bar fridge sat. He pulled out a bottle of expensive looking wine; everything in this palace was expensive looking, Quentin wasn’t sure why his mind was even still registering it at this point.

He took a corkscrew from the cabinet and popped the cork, taking a swig directly from the bottle.

When he collapsed back onto the couch, he held out the dark wine for Quentin to take.

That was a red flag, drinking straight from the bottle, and Quentin had a nagging reminder of a tab on Eliot’s Wikipedia page that mentioned rumors of alcoholism. He supposed, though, that the more he drank, the less Eliot would.

He wrapped his fingers around the bottle’s neck, brushing against Eliot’s hand. His skin burned despite the ice-cold touch of the glass. Eliot let go, and Quentin took his own swig.

They passed the wine back and forth in silence, the only acknowledgement of one another through the briefest touch of their hands as the bottle moved between them.

Quentin was just starting to feel light-headed when Eliot broke the silence.

“My father was a piece of shit.”

Quentin swallowed another gulp of the wine; he still wasn’t sure what kind it was. He liked wine but he never understood a damn thing about it.

Eliot picked at a loose thread from his vest, which he’d unbuttoned at some point after they’d begun drinking.

“He used to lock me in the security shelter whenever I was being too much of a fuck-up for him to handle.”

Eliot grimaced before taking another swig.

Quentin found his gaze trained on the column of Eliot’s neck as he swallowed, from the stubble along his jaw, down to the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

He gulped, forcing himself to look away before his thoughts took him somewhere incredibly stupid.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, an echo against the silence of the room.

Eliot let out a bitter laugh. “What are you sorry for?” He tipped his head back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m going to be a king, you shouldn’t feel sorry for me.”

He sounded so lost, like a little boy rather than the high and mighty future king.

It stung Quentin’s heart just thinking about it. Eliot didn’t deserve this life, he never asked for it and yet, all these fucking magazines and websites and twitter accounts mocked him out as the playboy, the asshole, the fuck-up they’d all be better off without. It wasn’t fair.

“I just wish I could help,” Quentin admitted.

“Who cares?” Eliot said, “Monarchies are dying out, even if Fillory’s tries to be progressive as hell. I’ll probably be deposed by the time I’m thirty. My pathetic, first-world problems don’t matter.”

“They matter to me.”

Eliot lifted his head and stared at him, expression uncharacteristically blank. “You hardly know me.”

Quentin shrugged. “I bond fast.”

They had shifted closer, unnoticed by Q until now, on the couch. Eliot’s thigh was pressed against Quentin’s knee and he was suddenly very aware of the warmth.

Quentin glanced up at him. “Do you always drink with new hires?”

Eliot leaned back, laughing for the first time in front of Q.

“Only the cute, nerdy ones.”

Quentin’s mind went to Brian, Margo’s actual assistant, who’d probably been really shit at his job if he’d ended up hooking up with Eliot before he could even meet his new boss.

But as Quentin glanced over at Eliot’s profile, his sharp nose and the curve of his lips, he realized if he’d met him in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Quentin set the bottle down, sliding off the couch and onto the obnoxiously comfortable carpeting. 

He probably looked like an idiot as he twisted around on his ass, lifting his legs so they were resting up on the cushions while his back was still against the floor.

It was easier to talk about deep stuff like this, as if laying upside down lifted some of the severity away from the conversation. At least, that’s how his dad always explained it when they laid like this on his bedroom floor.

“I tried to kill myself,” Quentin whispered.

Eliot froze, his eyebrows dipping downward.

“In 11th grade,” Quentin continued, slowly, staring up at the ceiling. “It got so bad and my parents were divorcing, and I knew Julia and I would be leaving for college in a year I just...”

There was a hand on his leg. Quentin bit his lip and glanced over at Eliot.

“You don’t have to explain it,” Eliot said, voice low.

When Quentin didn’t respond, there was a ‘thud’ sound, and suddenly Eliot was lying with his long legs up on the couch and his back on the carpet right next to Quentin.

“I thought this would be more comfortable,” he said, only sounding mildly disappointed.

“It’s, uh, something my dad used to have me do.” Quentin shot a glance over at Eliot. “For my anxiety. Not sure why it helps, but it usually does.”

Eliot smiled at him. It was different from the one in paparazzi and magazine photos; it was softer, more sincere. He looked less like an unattainable prince and more like an actual guy in his twenties.

“He sounds like a good father,” Eliot said.

“I mean, he was a typical father,” Quentin said, ducking his head, “Probably one of the better ones though.”

Eliot’s gaze softened. “Was?”

“Cancer,” Quentin said, simply.

“Oh.”

Quentin shrugged, an awkward gesture to do while lying on the floor. He was over it, as much as someone ever can be over losing a loved one.

They stayed that way for a while, staring up at the ceiling in companionable silence. Eliot had left the bottle on the couch, a small victory Quentin was thankful for, nonetheless.

He hadn’t been expecting to spill his suicidal history, but then again, he also hadn’t been expecting to feel relieved by it.

Even with Julia, it was hard to talk about what he went through, and she was his best friend. But with Eliot? The words spilled out of him easily and it had felt like an indescribable weight had been lifted off his chest.

He felt Eliot’s hand tap at his wrist, the sudden sensation of warm fingers on his skin startling Quentin from his reverie.

“Margo will kill me if I don’t get my beauty rest,” he said, sitting up from the floor and swiping a hand through his elegantly disheveled hair. “She says I turn into a bridezilla without the groom.”

Quentin laughed, the sound softened with drowsiness. “I don’t doubt it.”

Eliot offered his hand, helping pull Quentin to his feet. Then, he let out a distinctly unprincely yawn.

“Thank you, Q.”

Quentin looked away. “It’s not a big deal.”

Eliot pressed a hand to his shoulder and Quentin couldn’t help but look at him. “I mean it.”

Quentin left the prince’s room in a daze, slightly tipsy and feeling like he was walking on air. As he climbed into his obnoxiously large bed, he wondered if it was from the wine or from Eliot.

~

Quentin settled into the routine of Whitespire more than he thought he ever could.

He found himself spending less time hidden away in his room and more time actually hanging out with the other palace workers. 

It was nothing like working at Brakebills.

If he hadn’t been receiving constant emails from Fogg asking about his progress, Quentin would’ve completely forgotten that being Margo’s assistant wasn’t his real job.

He spent time down in the kitchens with Josh, who would talk at him about the difference between spices Quentin had never even heard of before. He’d follow Benedict around at Margo’s behest, listing off the ever-growing list of supplies she needed for the coronation and making sure it was still in the budget. He even would make stilted conversation with Penny from time to time, if no one else was in the room.

Through all the chaos of working in a palace, though, Quentin was enveloped into Margo’s circle of friends, although she wouldn’t be caught dead calling them that.

It was bizarre, to say the least.

A few times a week, Margo would drag Quentin to a game of poker or a movie night or something equally as normal. It was always in the intimacy of the downstairs eating area or Margo’s chambers, never the lavish dining hall or one of the many sitting rooms. 

And every time they would walk in, Eliot would be there.

Whatever preconceived notions Quentin had about royalty were fully thrown out the window. Maybe the Queen of England didn’t hang out with the palace staff, but the High Prince of Fillory did. Eliot talked and laughed with Josh and Penny like they weren’t the people hired to take care of him.

Eliot may have looked the part of a prince with an ego to match, but on these nights, he never would’ve guessed.

Quentin realized he should’ve known better, after the conversation Eliot and he had the previous week, but it was still a bit of a shock to see Eliot with his hair messy and loosely tied into a ponytail, wearing jeans (dress jeans, mind you), and laughing over the rim of a glass of wine.

The most shocking realization that came from these evenings, however, was that Quentin and Eliot actually got along. Quentin found himself opening up more and to his surprise, Eliot was always right there, with an actual smile on his face.

It was a nice change of pace from his friendship with Alice, who preferred classic literature and not hearing Quentin babble about his interests.

Margo was a nerd, despite how well her curled hair and laissez-faire attitude hid it. They’d gotten in a heated debate about how bad the last season of _Game of Thrones_ was (they both agreed it was terrible, but for entirely different reasons) until Eliot had interrupted them and demanded they talk about _Gossip Girl_ instead (which both Margo and Eliot had been surprised that Quentin had watched). 

And _Gossip Girl_ was just the beginning.

“I’m telling you, _Star Wars_ wouldn’t have existed without _Star Trek. The Original Series_ set the stage for modern sci-fi!” Quentin defended his proclamation over a plate of Josh’s supposedly world-famous spaghetti alla carbonara.

“But _A New Hope_ changed science fiction cinema forever,” Margo pointed out, jabbing her fork in his direction. “It’s the second highest grossing movie franchise of all time, and that’s only because Marvel’s released almost triple the amount of films.”

“Not to mention, like, everyone has seen _Star Wars,_ ” Josh added, “Even casual, non-extreme-nerds-types like Penny.”

Victoria, who had made one of her rare appearances at their little group dinners tonight, rolled her eyes. “Penny’s a bigger nerd than you guys give him credit for.”

Penny glared at her with a mouthful of vegan meatball. “Don’t throw me under the bus like this, Tori.”

“I think I agree with Q on this one,” Eliot said, dropping a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. His fingers were warm, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“You didn’t even like _The Next Generation,_ ” Margo protested.

Eliot held up a finger. “I think we all can agree that it’d be better to live in an optimistic future where we befriend lots of aliens with weird ridges on their foreheads than a distant past where everyone steals from each other and some whiny fascist takes over the galaxy every other decade.”

Josh raised his eyebrows. “I thought you fell asleep when we binged the J.J. Abrams movies.”

Eliot shrugged. “I can’t help that all the homoeroticism kept capturing my attention.”

“See?” Quentin said, his gaze darting between Eliot and Margo. “Kirk and Spock are also the grandfathers of slash fiction. We wouldn’t have modern fan culture if it wasn’t for them.”

Eliot was looking at him curiously, but Quentin felt proud. His fluency in weird geek knowledge was finally paying off for something.

“Jesus fuck Judas.” Margo put her head in her hands. “I can’t believe I’m trying to convince the epitome of nerdy boys why _Star Wars_ is better.”

Josh leaned into her, glancing down at his phone. “77% of IGN voters agree with you, babe.”

“You know what?” Penny interjected, effectively silencing the room. “ _Lord of the Rings_ is better than any sci-fi franchise to date, even though everyone is whiter than a Dave Matthews Band concert, and that’s the truth.”

The table immediately launched into an uproar.

But Quentin was having fun. He hadn’t realized how little he’d been smiling and laughing and simply enjoying himself until now. 

Was this why Julia had been so worried about him these past few months?

A buzz from his pocket reminded him that he probably should call her; he said he would ages ago, but he’d been so caught up with everything going on at Whitespire that Julia and his old life in New York seemed millions of miles away.

The number on his screen wasn’t Julia, though. It was Fogg.

Quentin stared at the name as his phone rang twice more and then went to voicemail. _If he doesn’t get back to him soon, he’ll just keep calling._

He gave one last glance at the _2 Missed Calls_ notifications that were glaring up at him from his lockscreen, before switching off the phone and sliding it into his pocket.

~

“Quentin! Good, you’re here.”

Margo was making a beeline towards him from across the ballroom, her notorious clipboard pressed against her chest with one well-manicured hand.

“You sent Benedict,” Quentin said, flustered from running down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. “He told me it was an emergency.”

“It’s a huge fucking emergency.” Margo grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into the room, her voice echoing across the walls.

Quentin noticed that both Tick and Rafe were there, along with an unhappy Eliot. Although, it was rare Eliot wasn’t unhappy in Tick’s company.

“Eliot has to go over the steps for the Lorian Waltz and he needs a partner.”

Quentin blinked at her. “You called me from the other side of the palace because you want me to be Eliot’s dance partner?”

“You should be flattered,” Eliot called, looking much more pleased than he had just a few moments earlier.

“Why can’t you do it?” Quentin asked.

Margo tapped her nail against her clipboard. “I’ve got shit to do other than play princess.”

“And you couldn’t ask literally anybody else?”

“Anybody else has a job to do. The royal duke and duchess from Loria are coming in less than a month and everyone’s working their balls off to make sure it goes perfectly.”

“But I—”

“No butts, tits, or cocks, Coldwater, you’re my assistant,” Margo said, giving him a firm shove towards Eliot. “So _assist_ me by making sure El learns his fucking dance.”

She had her phone to her ear before Quentin could even attempt to protest anymore.

“Your Highness,” Tick finally piped up, clearly not thrilled with being left waiting, “If we could get started?”

Eliot uncrossed his arms, holding out a hand. “What do you say, Q?”

Quentin wasn’t about to risk Margo’s wrath, and besides, Eliot and he had been on much better terms after spilling their secrets to each other.

 _Some of,_ his traitorous brain reminded him, but Quentin pushed the thought away as quickly as it popped into his head.

He took Eliot’s outstretched hand, letting himself be pulled in close. 

Rafe adjusted their joined hands so they were pressed flat against each other, palm to palm. Eliot’s free hand wrapped around Quentin’s waist, resting comfortably on the small of his back.

“Put your hand on his shoulder,” Rafe said, and Quentin followed the instruction immediately.

When Rafe seemed satisfied, he signaled Tick to start the music.

It was a simple dance, even by Quentin’s standards, with a lot of swaying and stepping and all that jazz (metaphorically speaking). He was hyper-aware of how close they were, pressed chest-to-chest.

_Was this how all slow dances were?_ He’d missed one prom while he was hospitalized and ditched the other one to go to FantasyCon with Julia. Prom had never been something he’d looked forward to.

Quentin made a point of not looking Eliot in the eyes. That was too intimate for their tentative _acquaintances-who-drank-wine-together-that-one-time_ thing they had going on.

That flew out the window as soon as Eliot opened his mouth, of course.

“Sorry if this is a bit too gay for you.” Eliot said just out of earshot of Tick, mockery evident in his tone.

Quentin had to tilt his head back, but he met Eliot’s gaze with a firm one of his own. “Good thing I’m not straight, then.”

Eliot faltered, causing Tick to clear his throat.

“Sire, you know how strict the Lorians are about their first dances. You wouldn’t want to offend.”

Eliot made an over-exaggerated show of rolling his eyes, and Quentin had to hold back a laugh.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting Quentin’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Bambi has the utmost confidence in me.”

Quentin snorted. “I wouldn’t really call it confidence…”

“Rude, Coldwater, and I thought we were friends.”

Quentin blinked. “Are we?” He looked away. “Friends, I mean.”

“I told you about my father, didn’t I? There aren’t many people I trust with that information.”

Quentin swallowed, thoughts of Brakebills Inquirer and what he was really doing in Fillory bubbling to the forefront of his mind. “You hardly know me.”

Eliot smiled. “I bond fast.”

The hand on his waist tightened.

Quentin swallowed the lump in his throat. “That’s not what Margo told me.”

“Well, maybe you’re the exception.”

Eliot looked so genuine in that moment, Quentin held his breath. He’d never been anyone’s exception, not even Julia’s, back in high school when he so desperately wanted to be. He was always the problem, the guy everybody got stuck with, but never the exception.

“I—”

“Backs straight, gentlemen,” Tick called, and both Quentin and Eliot drew away from each other, still close enough to continue the dance, but with a more respectable distance separating them.  
Quentin couldn’t decide if he was grateful for the interruption or disappointed.

“Make sure you’re stepping in time with one another,” Rafe explained, moving his hands in a complicated motion that he probably thought emphasized his point. “The music is just background, the dance is more about your partner.”

Rafe’s instructions seemed to fade away as they continued to dance. 

If they weren’t being watched like a hawk, it might’ve felt as though it had jumped right out of a movie scene. He could practically hear Julia teasing him for actually enjoying this cheesy holiday romcom type situation.

 _Not that he had any problem with romcoms,_ Quentin decided, as he savored the warmth of Eliot’s touch on his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually looked up job positions at buckingham palace and _warden_ was literally the first thing that came up y'all whAt


	3. Chapter 3

Before Quentin knew it, a month had passed since his arrival in Fillory. Even though he hadn’t known his new friends long, he felt like he belonged more than he ever had at Brakebills.

It wasn’t all fun and games, however. 

Quentin may have put thoughts of Fogg and the Fillory article out of his mind, but Tick kept reminding Margo, Eliot, and him of the upcoming Winterfest Ball.

The festival officially began tomorrow and they only had a week left before the night of the ball. Although they were exhausted from planning, Eliot’s idea to open the party to any citizen of Fillory was proving to be widely popular across the country.

“Josh made us drinks,” Quentin said, placing the tray onto one of Eliot’s end tables. He still wasn’t entirely used to someone having an entire sitting room in their bedroom, but c’est la vie.

“Thank fuck someone’s taking this seriously.” Margo snagged one of the pink margaritas and took a generous sip.

“I’m taking this very seriously, Bambi.” Eliot’s flippant tone implied otherwise.

The three of them had been meeting in Eliot’s chambers every afternoon to hash out any last-minute details. Or at least, Margo and Quentin were hashing out details. 

Eliot, who had been lounging across the couch like a cat, let his legs drop back to the floor.

“C’mon over, Q.” He patted the now vacant spot next to him and Quentin obliged.

Margo draped her legs over Eliot’s lap from where she was situated in her chair.

“I’m thinking we hire a DJ for the ball,” she said, clicking her pen. “Josh was telling me about this guy, DJ Hansel. He’s supposedly the biggest act at Fairy Dust this season.”

Quentin shot Eliot a confused look.

“It’s this super popular club in downtown Fillory,” Eliot explained. “Bambi and I spent our rebellious youth there, snorting more than just fairy dust, if you know what I mean.”

Margo laced her fingers with his and grinned at him; Eliot was one of the few people she seemed to let her guard down around. 

Quentin almost felt jealous of how close they were, but he was starting to realize it wasn’t of Eliot.

“I’m sure DJ Hansel will be a step up from the usual snooze fest band Tick hires,” Eliot said.

“What about the Lorian first dance tradition? Won’t they be offended?“ Quentin asked, thinking back to his afternoon dancing with Eliot, pressed against him, his warm hands on his waist…

Eliot waved him off. “We’ll just queue up some traditional Lorian music when the time comes.”

“Besides,” Margo added, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, “I’m sure Duke Ess won’t mind.”

A lascivious smile spread across her lips and Eliot snorted.

“Remember when we visited Loria like three years ago and you had me distract Ess’s guard with a goddamn magic trick so you could sneak into his room?”

Margo gasped gleefully. “Oh my god, I forgot, what was her name? Plum? She was furious!”

“But you said it was worth it.” Eliot wiggled his eyebrows.

“ _He_ was.”

Eliot started laughing and Quentin couldn’t help but join in.

“You do magic tricks?” Quentin asked when he finally caught his breath. He used to do card tricks as a kid, but fell out of it after he graduated college.

“Just sleight of hand shit,” Eliot said. “You have a coin?”

Margo tossed him a Fillorian silver dollar and Eliot cracked his fingers.

Quentin stared as the coin jumped from Eliot’s left hand to his right, transfixed by his long, dexterous fingers. _It wasn’t creepy to suddenly obsess over someone’s hands, right? It wasn’t like a foot fetish or anything._

Eliot sat up from where he had been slumped against the couch cushion. He positioned himself so he was facing Quentin, holding the coin up between them.

“You’ve got a hair loose.” Eliot suddenly reached forward and tucked a piece of Quentin’s hair behind his ear.

Quentin’s breath stilled and he could hear his heart thumping in his chest at Eliot’s lack of personal space. Maybe it was time to examine why Eliot fucking Waugh was always taking his breath away, even when he didn’t seem to be trying to.

When Eliot pulled back, his hand held open, the coin was gone.

“Wow,” Quentin said, “That’s not bad.”

Margo snorted. “It’s in his sleeve.”

Quentin frowned. “I know, but it’s still a neat trick.”

Margo peered at him over the edge of her clipboard before flicking her gaze over to Eliot. “You just use your charming good looks for evil, like playing tricks on neurotic nerd boys.”

“You guys act like I’m some kind of blushing virgin and I’m really not.” 

Quentin would’ve been more offended in high school, even though it was true then, but coming out as bisexual coupled with Julia aggressively beating the ‘heteronormative and sexist idea of virginity’ out of his head had changed that.

“Aww, our little Q,” Eliot cooed, pressing a hand to his chest, “All grown up.”

Quentin tossed his magazine at him.

They were beginning to devolve into another fit of laughter when there was a knock at the door.

Margo straightened up in her seat, removing her legs from Eliot’s lap and running a hand through her hair.

Eliot did the same with his already perfect hair, smoothing his vest as well. Quentin shifted to mimic them, but he realized his button down and jeans paled in comparison to their Fillorian get-ups.

“Come in!” Eliot called, clearing his throat.

The door opened to reveal Poppy, one of the maids Quentin had been introduced to his first week at Whitespire. She was hard to miss with her bright hair and bubbly personality. Even though she seemed like the type of person to get along with anyone, Quentin hadn’t seen her hanging around Margo, Eliot, and Penny that much.

Although, he’d almost run into her coming up from the kitchens a few times. Maybe she was a foodie, like Josh. Or a hemp enthusiast. Either made sense.

She inclined her head in Eliot’s direction; most of the staff didn’t bow, unless Tick was around.

“Your Highness,” she said. “There’s a phone call for Quentin Coldwater.”

Eliot wrinkled his nose. “We still have a landline?”

Quentin gulped. The only person who would dare call him on the palace phone would be Fogg.

“I should probably take that,” Quentin said, getting to his feet.

Margo tapped her clipboard but didn’t bother looking up. “Don’t be long. We’ve still got a shit ton to do before we’re ready for next week.”

Quentin nodded dumbly, shuffling out into the hallway with Poppy.

“Who called?” Quentin tried not to sound too jumpy. He didn’t want to give himself away now, not when he was in too deep.

 _They’ll all find out eventually,_ his traitorous brain reminded him, but he pushed the thought aside. 

“There is no call.” Poppy crossed her arms over her chest.

“What?”

“I know about you, what you’re hiding,” she said. There was a wide smile on her face, all teeth, but nothing like Eliot’s soft grin or Margo’s closed-lip smile. 

Something in her eyes told Quentin he was royally fucked.

“I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.” Quentin tried, but he knew he didn’t sound remotely convincing.

Poppy obviously took notice. “I know you work for an American tabloid. Brakebills Inquirer, right?”

Quentin gulped. “How did you find out?”

Poppy laughed. She was way too happy for someone who was supposed to be blackmailing him.

“You’re not the only one looking for insider info on the heir to the Fillorian throne.” She pulled out her phone and held it up, swiping through pictures of Quentin’s plane ticket, his luggage tags, and the email from Fogg he’d printed with the hotel information that he’d never used. 

The most damning of them all was a highlighted section of the printed email, where Fogg clearly mentions his actual purpose for being in Fillory: _“find everything you can about the prince, whether you put it in the article or not.”_

“You went through my stuff?” Quentin reached out to grab the phone, but Poppy yanked it away.

“Ah-ah- _ah_ , I already saved this to my computer and a backup flash drive. That’s just blackmailing 101.”

Quentin stared at her, his mouth parted but he was unable to speak. What could he say? He knew this was coming, but he’d always secretly wished Fogg would give up on him and he could keep living his life in Fillory, his new friends blissfully unaware of his original intentions.

“I’ll admit, Quentin,” Poppy said, tapping at her phone, “Printing out sensitive information like that and keeping it in your room in the fucking palace? In 2019?”

Quentin had been worried his cell service wouldn’t work in a foreign country, but it had been a stupid move. He wasn’t a spy though, or some kind of hardcore investigative journalist like Alice. He’d told Fogg that, and still, here he was, blowing his cover like an amateur.

Poppy beamed at something on her phone. All the smiling was starting to get a bit eerie. She clearly was more than a maid at Whitespire. 

“Fogg must be desperate if he sent someone like you to get him a story,” she said.

Quentin blinked. “You know Fogg?”

“I don’t, but my boss does.” Poppy looked at him with a thoughtful expression, as if she was calculating just how much she wanted to reveal to him. “She used to work for him, but Fogg booted her for being too ambitious.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “You work for a tabloid, too.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Mine’s Fillorian, though. We’re not as funded as a New York based company like Brakebills.”

Poppy tapped his nose. “That’s where you come in.”

“What do you want?” Quentin tried to come across as disinterested, but he sounded more like a petulant child than a gritty action hero.

“You’ve gotten closer than I ever could to our target.” She gestured towards the closed door of Eliot’s room and Quentin felt his stomach drop.

“I want you to pass on everything you learn to me,” she continued, still grinning widely.

“So you can publish it in your ridiculous gossip magazine?” Quentin clenched his fist. “I don’t think so. I won’t let you do that to Eliot.”

“You don’t exactly have a choice.” Poppy waved her phone at him, eyebrow quirked and lip curved to reveal a dimple in her cheek. Even that made her look threatening.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” Quentin protested. “None of them do.”

“How is your job any different from mine?” Poppy shook her head. “Just because you’re starting to feel sorry for him doesn’t exonerate you from all of this. At least I’m honest about what I’m doing.”

“I’m not—”

Poppy’s face darkened. “I’m just doing my job, and if you don’t want to land yourself in hot water, I suggest you start doing yours.”

Before Quentin could eke out a reply, she was brushing past him.

“Keep me updated,” Poppy said, her voice back to its overly cheery self, “Or I’ll tell Margo and Eliot why you’re really in Fillory.”

She gave him a little wave before disappearing down the hall, leaving Quentin slack jawed and out of breath.

He knew Margo and Eliot were waiting for him a few doors away, but Quentin’s heart was racing too fast for him to face them just yet.

_What the hell was he going to do now?_

~

By the time Quentin worked up the nerve to return to Eliot’s room, Eliot had dozed off and Margo was talking rapidly into her cellphone.

“Give me one sec,” she said into the phone, before tapping the mute button.

“Is that the DJ you guys were talking about?” Quentin asked.

Margo nodded. “He’s more than happy to work the ball. I’m gonna head back to my office now while we nail down a few more details.”

Quentin rubbed his hands on his jeans, praying Margo didn’t notice the sweat. _Sweat was a dead giveaway that you had something to hide, right?_

“Do you need help with anything?”

She shot him that familiar grin of confidence. “I’ve got in covered. My meeting with the florist is in a half hour and then I’ve got to talk to the High Council.” 

When Quentin didn’t reply, she continued, voice a bit softer than it had been before. “I know I said we had a lot to do, but since Eliot’s tuned out, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We’ve been busting our asses this past week.”

Quentin wasn’t sure being alone with nothing to focus on was the best idea for him right now, but he couldn’t exactly tell Margo that. Then he’d have to explain everything, and he wasn’t prepared for that just yet. 

Or ever, if he was being honest.

“Thanks,” Quentin said instead, “I’ll see you at dinner?”

Margo was already back on the phone though, her voice dropping to a whisper so not to wake Eliot.

Quentin glanced at him, his head leaning against the bend of his elbow and the armrest. He looked peaceful, something Quentin knew wasn’t the norm for him.

A tidal wave of guilt swept over him and he hurried out of the room.

For the first time all month, Quentin remembered just how in over his head he was.

He spent the next hour in his bed, trying to sleep away his problems. When that didn’t work, he resorted to pacing the length of his room.

Quentin considered FaceTiming Julia; he’d been keeping her updated on his pathetic attempts at espionage since he’d arrived, but she’d been MIA for the past two days. He knew if he really needed her, though, she would pick up.

As he scrolled through his contacts list, another name caught his eye.

He hadn’t responded to Alice’s emails since his first week in Fillory, and he knew she was probably itching to hear how things were going. 

“Not that she’d be surprised I’m a terrible spy,” he muttered.

Quentin’s finger hovered over the call button for a solid minute and a half before he finally gave in.

It only took two rings for Alice picked up.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hey, Alice.”

There was a long pause, and Quentin thought the call had dropped.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked, her words lined with a disappointment he could practically see on her face.

“In Fillory?”

Alice scoffed. “I know you’re in Fillory, I just meant we haven’t heard from you in ages.”

There was another prolonged pause and loud rustling before Alice continued in a low voice. “Fogg’s not happy.”

“When is Fogg ever happy?” Quentin said.

“I’m serious, Q.”

She never called him Q anymore, not unless there was something she wanted.

“I keep asking him about the status of the Fillory article,” she said, “But he won’t tell me anything. If the problem is writer’s block, you know I don’t mind taking it off your hands for you.”

“Jesus, Alice, I just wanted some advice.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Not for you to steal the Fillory story from me.”

“Well, it’s not like you even wanted it in the first place,” Alice said, matter-of-factly.

“It’s more than just the article, and I don’t know what to do.”

Quentin could practically feel her thinking through the phone before she replied. “What happened?”

“Where do I start?” Quentin said with a sigh. 

“Try the beginning.”

Quentin ignored her deadpan reply. He wasn’t even sure of his own feelings, let alone how to express them to Alice of all people. But she was an expert at going undercover for a job.

“I think I’m in too deep?” he said. “I’m emotionally attached to the people I’m supposed to be exploiting for a tabloid story? I might be falling for a prince?”

“I’m sorry, you’re _what?_ "

Quentin was thankful she couldn’t see him turn beet red. “I know, it’s ridiculous. I’ve only been here a month and—”

Alice cut him off. “That’s not even the half of it. All of Brakebills is depending on this article! I could lose my job, hell, Fogg will blacklist you from every journalism job on the east coast!”

Quentin winced. _What was this? The plot of a bad Hallmark movie?_ “I never said I wouldn’t write the article.”

 _Hadn’t he, though?_ If he really cared about anyone at Whitespire, he couldn’t publish it.

Alice didn’t seem to believe him, either. “Are you really prepared to fuck Brakebills over just to get your dick wet?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You said it yourself,” she whisper-yelled, “You’ve only known him for a month. He’s a classic playboy act, Quentin, and you’re falling for it hook, line, and sinker.”

Quentin always wished Alice and he could be closer friends, at one point even more than that, but she was always like this. He didn’t need someone reminding him of every time he’d fucked up.. He already did that to himself enough.

 _Why didn’t you call Julia, then?_ his mind supplied.

Not in the headspace to begin examining his impulsive decision making and personal biases, Quentin pressed on.

“It’s more than that. I _like_ Fillory.”

“It sounds like you’re giving up your career for a fairytale.”

“What career? You’re the lead writer!” Quentin could feel the anger boiling low in his abdomen. “You get the good stories because you’re damn good at your job! I’m already washed up and I’m not even thirty. Maybe Fillory’s better for my novel, anyway.”

“God,” Alice cried, disgust clear in her voice. “You’re always so prepared to play the victim. You’re not gonna write a novel, you just need an excuse.”

“I just wanted your advice!”

Alice sighed. “You don’t want advice, you want someone to pity you.”

“So you’re suddenly an expert on everything I want?”

There was silence on the line, and Quentin could practically hear Alice shaking her head.

“Do whatever you want, Quentin,” she said, “Just make sure you know what you’re giving up.”

She ended the call before he could open his mouth. 

He probably should’ve just called Julia.

Alice reminded him of Margo, or vice versa. They both needed time to cool off before things went to normal. 

_Had there ever really been a normal for Alice and him, though?_

Quentin skipped dinner and went to bed early, pushing his fight with Alice out of his mind and replacing it with a certain dark-haired prince.

~

“You’ve been moping.”

Eliot caught up with him in the hallway the next day and matched his stride.

“I haven’t,” Quentin said, but he knew he was frowning.

“Uh, you absolutely have.”

“Have not.”

Eliot bumped their shoulders together. “Margo has a big surprise for you.”

Quentin’s eyebrow’s rose. “For me? What is it?”

Eliot shot him a smug look. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Margo didn’t trust you to keep it a secret, did she?”

Eliot pressed his free hand to his chest in mock offense. “You don’t think I can keep a secret?”

Quentin laughed. “I know for a fact Margo doesn’t think so.”

Eliot scowled at him.

“I wasn’t even supposed to tell you there was a surprise,” he admitted. “She just told me to bring you to the downstairs dining area by seven.”

Eliot linked their arms, pulling him towards the kitchens.

Almost everyone was crowded around the drink-and-appetizer-covered dining table when they arrived. Even Todd was there, munching on a carrot stick and laughing at something Benedict was saying.

Quentin leaned in closer to Eliot so he could whisper to him over the soft hum of conversation drifting through the room. “I don’t think dinner and drinks constitutes as a big surprise.”

“That’s because dinner isn’t the surprise,” a familiar voice said from behind them.

Quentin whipped his head around to see none other than Julia waving at him, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. Kady and Margo stood behind her, looking equally as pleased with Quentin’s astonished reaction.

“Julia?”

Julia beamed at him, pulling him into a hug.

“What are you doing here?” Quentin asked, wrapping his arms around her despite his shock.

“I told you,” she said, releasing him from her tight embrace. “Kady might be getting a security job in Fillory.”

Quentin shook his head, still a bit dazed. “You didn’t say it was at Whitespire.”

“She didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Kady said, leaning into Julia’s space. “And Margo swore us to secrecy.”

Margo shrugged. “I figured we deserved a little break after all our hard work.”

Quentin grinned at her. “Thank you, seriously. You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Don’t get sappy on me,” she said, smacking his arm. “Josh did the food and Eliot was the one who came up with the whole thing. I just put it together.”

Quentin turned to him. “I thought you said you had no idea.”

Eliot waved him off. “So I may have fudged the truth a bit.”

Quentin glanced at him and he almost looked sheepish. 

“Thank you, El, seriously.” He squeezed Eliot’s arm in reassurance.

“Gourmet pizza is done, folks!” Josh cried, popping his head out from the kitchen.

“Alright, bitches,” Margo shouted, “Grab a slice and let’s get this shit started!”

Julia fit in with Quentin’s Fillory friends like they were her own. Margo and her swapped embarrassing stories about Quentin, much to his chagrin, and she won Josh over with her knowledge of his favorite movie, _Labyrinth._

Even Eliot seemed to like her, if the way he kept offering her more of his signature cocktails was any indication (Margo assured him it was).

Kady took a bit more coaxing, but her and Penny ended up brooding in the corner together, making tentative conversation and occasionally, if Quentin was paying close enough attention, cracking a smile.

As the night went on and more and more alcohol was consumed, courtesy of Eliot’s surprisingly component bartending skills, Quentin let his argument with Alice drift to the back of his mind.

He had positioned himself on the loveseat not too far from the bar, where Josh and Margo were singing a drunken rendition of _Making Love Out of Nothing at All,_ and Eliot was critiquing their pitch. 

“You look happy.”

Julia plopped down next to him, another one of Eliot’s cocktails, this one bright blue with a cherry, in her hand.

“I think I actually am.” Quentin glanced back at his friends, his eyes holding on Eliot a moment longer, before turning to Julia. 

Julia patted his arm. “Don’t sound so shocked. I knew this would be good for you.”

“It’s not that,” Quentin said, lowering his voice. “I wish I wasn’t here under false pretenses.” 

She shot him a lopsided grin. “What are you, a lawyer?” 

When he didn’t reply, her expression sobered. 

“I haven’t seen you like this in ages,” she said, “Fillory makes you happy, _he_ makes you happy.”

Quentin looked up across the room at Eliot again. He was laughing at something Josh had said, Margo practically attached to his hip.

“They’ll hate me,” he said, staring down at his lap. “I don’t think I can write the article Fogg wants, I can never seem to get Alice to like me, and now I’m being blackmailed, but I can’t just give away their information. They’re my friends.”

Julia coughed, nearly dropping her drink. “Whoa, hold on, back up. Blackmail?”

Quentin picked at his jeans. “I’d been meaning to tell you.”

She smacked him. “What the hell, Q?”

“You weren’t answering your phone!” he cried.

“I was trying to surprise you!”

“And I was in crisis!”

Julia shifted on the loveseat so she was facing him. “Tell me everything. Who are they? What do we have to do to stop them?”

“Her name’s Poppy,” Quentin said, “She’s a maid but she’s working undercover here.”

Julia pursed her lips. “I see why they brought in Kady. They really have shitty security if they’ve let two spies infiltrate Whitespire like this.”

“I barely qualify as a spy,” Quentin pointed out.

“How’d she find out about you?”

“She went through my stuff,” he admitted. “Google probably helped too. My name’s all over the Brakebills website.”

“We have to do something about her,” Julia said. 

“It sounds like you want to off her when you put it like that.”

Julia shrugged. “I mean, if we have to.”

“Jesus, Jules.”

Julia held her arms up. “I’m kidding!”

Quentin sighed, letting his head drop onto the back cushion of the loveseat. “I’m too sober for this,” he groaned.

Julia giggled, a tell tale sign she was starting to get drunk. “You’re not sober, though.”

“I’m kind of sober,” Quentin defended.

“What are we going to do about Poppy?” Julia asked, changing the subject back to where they began.

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, “I don’t even want to think about what she’s doing while we’re enjoying ourselves. She could be going through my shit again for all I know.”

“Listen, Q.” 

Julia paused, holding her finger up as she burped before continuing. “I know you think it’s all going to shit right now, but we’ll handle this. Enjoy yourself for a minute. I’m here, that Josh guy made some really great food, and you’ve got a hot prince who keeps staring at your from across the room.”

Quentin’s back straightened and he shot a glance at Eliot. “He’s been staring at me?”

“Basically all evening.” Julia put her hand on his arm. “Can you enjoy yourself for one night? Have a little fun, and then we can deal with whatever living hell life throws at us tomorrow, yeah?”

“You know I’m not good at that.”

“I know,” she said, “But it’s worth a try.”

He hadn’t ever been good at turning off his brain, at least, not at parties. This barely qualified as a party, though. To Margo, this was a very-small get-together if anything. Ten people was more than enough for him, though.

But nevertheless, Quentin tried.

Margo broke out a karaoke machine that no one even knew existed until now. Todd sang an off-key _All Star_ and Julia and Quentin did a crowd-pleasing performance of _Mr. Brightside_ until Margo demanded they do some holiday themed songs, as it was the holiday season. 

Penny got roped into singing _Santa Baby_ alongside Kady, and Eliot finished the night off with a stunning rendition of _All I Want For Christmas is You._

Quentin wasn’t sure how late it was when it finally started to wind down. Todd, Benedict, and Margo had all gone to bed and Julia was snoring softly on Kady’s shoulder in the corner.

“I think it’s closing time,” Margo said, humming along to the Semisonic song that was still playing from the machine.

Eliot gave a disgruntled huff from where he had collapsed next to her at the table. Margo flicked him.

“I’ll make sure he gets to his room,” Quentin offered.

“Hey,” Eliot protested, “I’m perfectly capable of getting there m’self, thank you.”

Margo rolled her eyes and assisted Quentin in helping Eliot to his feet. He pushed them both away, though, straightening his shirt as he stood up.

“Q’s gonna take you up anyway,” Margo said, “In case you can’t find your room and decide to sleep on one of those plants in the hallway.”

“One time!” Eliot cried, but he draped an arm over Quentin’s shoulder and maneuvered them towards the door anyway.

“If he’s a bitch, feel free to hit him!” Margo called after them.

Eliot flipped her off and Quentin let out a choked laugh. They had both dissolved into a fit of laughter by the time they reached the top of the stairs.

 _Maybe Julia was right,_ he thought, though he really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

But pressed this close to Eliot, alcohol on their breath and their ridiculous giggling filling the air, Quentin couldn’t remember a time he’d been happier.

~

They ended up slumped on Eliot’s couch together, just like they had so many times before, giggling and still a bit tipsy.

“Your witch friend—“

“Julia,” Quentin corrected.

“She said you skipped your middle school science fair to go see the last _Harry Potter_ movie premiere.”

Quentin wiggled his eyebrows. “What? Can’t imagine I was a bad boy?”

Eliot snorted. “If you think ditching a voluntary, after-school event to go see a nerdy movie makes you a bad boy, I’d love to see what you’d think of me in high school.”

Quentin shifted on the couch, so he was facing Eliot. “Try me.”

Eliot shot him a sidelong glance before clearing his throat.

“As you know, I was wildly popular in school.”

Quentin rolled his eyes.

Eliot continued. “My classmates loved me, probably because they were required to.”

“They secretly thought you were a dick, though,” Quentin said.

“Of course they did,” Eliot confirmed, “I was _the_ dick, Q. The High Prince Dick, if you will.”

“A truly honorable title,” Quentin said, waving his hand in a mocking impression of Tick.

“In more ways than one, mind you.” Eliot wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, shut up,” Quentin said, willing away the heat rising in his cheeks.

“You shut up,” Eliot replied, “I’m trying to tell you a story.”

“About your dick in high school?”

“About my dick in high school.”

They swapped stories like they were childhood friends, having waited years to catch up. It should have been strange; Quentin had hardly known him a month ago. 

Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Eliot on his couch, recounting the interesting and hopelessly geeky (on Q’s part) exploits of their respective upbringings, was the most comfortable he’d felt in years.

Quentin wasn’t sure how long they’d kept each other up; it could’ve been hours and he still wouldn’t have cared. He wouldn’t trade moments like these for the world.

Eliot and him were both finally reacquainted with sobriety after they’d traded storytelling for watching Netflix. Eliot had turned on some Fillorian modern fantasy series that he’d said really tanked during the fourth season.

The main character had just sacrificed himself in an overly dramatic way to save his ex-girlfriend and her new beau when Eliot spoke up again.

“You know, for all the shit they write about me, they never found out I was a bastard.”

Eliot’s gaze was still trained on the screen when Quentin glanced at him. 

“Wait, _what?_ You mean...” He trailed off.

Eliot sighed, running a hand down his face. He had a bit of a shadow growing in along his chin and mouth, but he still looked frustratingly regal.

“My mom was American, from Indiana,” he said, making a face. “I was never supposed to have the throne, but god forbid they break my father’s line, even if it was tainted by tractor fucker blood.”

Quentin took a second to digest the information. It did explain why Eliot and his father’s relationship always seemed on the rocks, even when he was young.

“What happened to her?” he asked, softly.

“She worked as a maid here for a few years, but she died when I was young.”

“El.” Quentin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Fillory pretends to be progressive, but they’re just as elitist as any other fucking monarchy,” Eliot said bitterly, “I have to hide the truth about who I am and where I came from every day because some people can’t get over their own prejudiced ideas of how others should live their lives.”

“If I have to be king,” he continued, “I’m going to fix it. I don’t know how, but I owe that to my mother.”

Eliot spoke with such raw determination, in that moment, Quentin would’ve followed him anywhere.

“Don’t you see you’re already doing that?” Quentin said, in earnest. “Opening the Winterfest Ball to everyone, pushing back against Tick and the High Council’s outdated ideas of governing, that’s all you.”

Eliot was still for a minute longer, his head held high and his profile illuminated by the moonlight seeping in from the window. He truly looked like a king. 

But then he rolled his shoulders as if he was dropping the weight of the world off his back, breaking the trance.

“I’m over it,” he said, the lie obvious as soon as it left his tongue. “The rest of Fillory never has to know and I can continue with my scandal ridden reign before it’s even officially begun.”

Quentin froze, suddenly realizing the weight of what Eliot had just told him. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Tell him to take it all back, say it was just a joke, but it was too late.

_Poppy couldn’t know this, no one could. Of everything he’d learned while living at the palace, not this._

“I don’t know about scandal,” Quentin said, trying to choose his words carefully, “Margo told me, you haven’t been with anyone since, erm, you and that guy, uh, Brian.”

He always managed to put his foot in his mouth somehow, it seemed.

Eliot hummed. “I don’t think that’s any of Margo’s business.” His tone was just left of annoyed. “Or yours, for that matter.”

“Sorry, I just, she seemed proud of you, I guess?” Quentin said, “That you weren’t doing anything to risk the crown.” _Like revealing he's a bastard to the guy sent to spy on him._

Eliot frowned, a bitter look twisting his face. “Well, I’m so glad she’s taken to gossiping with the help.”

Quentin scowled at him. “She literally thinks you’ll be a great king, and you’re upset about that?”

“Margo doesn’t need someone defending her, least of all you.”

That one stung a little. Quentin wasn’t sure where along the way they went from swapping school stories to arguing about Margo, but despite the change in subject, the atmosphere in the room still felt charged.

“Well, what about me?” Quentin said with as much confidence as he could muster, shifting so he could look him in the eye. “I think you’re going to make a great king.”

Eliot stilled, the anger fading away from his face as he met Q’s gaze. “You do?”

Startled by the sudden change in Eliot’s demeanor, Quentin stumbled over his words. “I, uh, yeah, of course I do.”

“You’ve known me for a month.”

“But I know you, El,” Quentin said with fever. “I know you don’t like to show it, but you’re a natural leader and you care so much about Fillory.”

Eliot stared at him with an unreadable expression. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” Quentin said, “I believe it.”

They’d been leaning in as they talked, Quentin only realizing now that it wouldn’t take much effort to close the gap between them.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Quentin wanted Eliot close to him, wanted it practically since their first disastrous meeting.

Eliot pulled back, leaving Quentin still reeling from the thought. He snagged their glasses of water from the coffee table, handing one to Quentin.

“I think we should make a toast,” Eliot said.

Quentin snorted. “With water?”

Eliot raised an eyebrow and clinked their glasses together. “May the Winterfest Ball go off without a hitch, and may we both be sober enough to remember it.”

“But tipsy enough to enjoy ourselves,” Quentin added.

Eliot took a long gulp of the clear liquid, but Quentin put his glass down.

They were still sitting pressed against each other on the couch, Eliot’s leg a line of warmth against Quentin’s. He waited for the alarms to go off in his head, the fear to settle in that always inevitably dragged Q away from perfect times like these, but they never came.

“Hey, I, uh,” Quentin stuttered.

“Hey,” Eliot said, and his voice was so soft and his smile so real, Quentin couldn’t help himself.

He kissed him. 

It was short, just a press of lips together, but it was the only thing he could do to tell Eliot just what he meant to him in that moment.

When Quentin pulled away, he could feel the sheepish smile playing on his lips, still tingling with the indescribable feeling of Eliot, Eliot, _Eliot._

Eliot seemed to have a similar train of thought, because he leaned back in, taking Quentin by the neck and pulling him into a firmer kiss.

Quentin melted like putty in Eliot’s arms.

_Was it too much like a cheesy romcom to say he felt sparks?_

Quentin immediately moved to settle himself into Eliot’s lap, pressing his fingers to either side of his face, as if that alone could keep him there. 

Their kisses quickly turned frantic, Quentin tugging at Eliot’s shirt and Eliot pulling at Quentin’s hair.

A warm, tingling feeling spread from every point of contact between them. His fingers caught in Eliot’s dark hair, musings the styled strands and adding to his already disheveled look.

Quentin bit at his lower lip and Eliot sighed into his mouth, just managing to groan out, “Bed?”

Quentin nodded, scrambling off Eliot’s lap and helping him to his feet.

They barely made it to Eliot’s mattress, with Quentin tugging his shirt over his head and Eliot leaving a trail of kisses and soft bites along his neck. 

Eliot pinned him down to the sheets, cold against Quentin’s bare back.

“What do you want, Q?”

Eliot’s voice was low and heavy with want, and it made Quentin’s spine tingle.

“You.”

Eliot snorted, halting his trail of kisses down Quentin’s throat to kiss his lips again. When he pulled away, he was smiling down at him.

“What?” Quentin asked, suddenly feeling a wave of nerves resurfacing in the forefront of his mind.

“You’re a dork,” Eliot said.

Quentin pouted. “That’s not the compliment guys usually hope for in bed.”

“But you took it as a compliment?” Eliot quirked his brow.

“Shut up.”

Quentin made to gently push Eliot off him, but he was pinned back down by a laughing Eliot.

“I really like you, Q.” Eliot’s voice had lost its edge of humor, and he met Quentin’s gaze with a sincere one of his own.

Quentin knew he was blushing. He couldn’t help it; he’d always turned pink at the drop of a hat.

Eliot kissed him again, in his continuous journey of reminding Quentin just how much he loved being kissed, and Quentin languished in the feel of Eliot pressed against him.

Every so often, between the flurry of kisses, Eliot would pull back and look down at Quentin with a soft expression playing on his features.

His curls had come undone and were framing his face. With the only light coming from the soft glow of a lamp in the corner, Eliot looked like he’d stepped right out of Quentin’s dreams.

“Can I fuck you?” It would’ve sounded crude coming from anyone else, but Eliot’s voice welled with so much affection, Quentin felt his chest about to burst.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d ever ask.”

Eliot took his reply as the resolute yes it had been, and dragged him into another kiss.

He licked into Quentin’s mouth, sliding his hand down along Quentin’s chest until it rested on the button of his jeans.

It didn’t take long for Eliot to get them both out there their clothes. Quentin slowed the process, however, by leaning up for kiss after searing kiss.

Not that Eliot seemed to mind in the least. If anything, he took Quentin’s borderline obsession with kissing him in stride, grinning against his mouth every time Quentin pressed closer for another kiss.

Quentin whined against Eliot’s lips, rolling his bare hips in a desperate attempt for friction. 

Eliot seemed to get the hint and pulled a jar of lube and a condom from his bedside table.

Quentin watched, enraptured, as Eliot rolled it on over his hardening dick.

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Like what you see?”

Quentin hadn’t been with a lot of men in his life; He actually hadn’t been with a lot of people period, as much as he enjoyed sex, one night stands tended to stress him out even more than relationships did.

But seeing Eliot, flushed and beaming and agonizingly hard, all because of Quentin?

Well, even he couldn’t find anxiety in that.

Quentin found himself nodding in response, taking Eliot’s length in his hand.

Eliot let out a surprised moan. 

“Jesus, Q, maybe warn a guy,” he huffed.

He took Quentin in his own hand and leaned in to drag him into another passionate kiss.

As they grinded against each other, hands working a steady rhythm in what little space was left between them, all Quentin could think was _god, why hadn’t they done this sooner?_

Everything seemed to blur together after that; running their hands eagerly over each other’s arousals, Eliot pushing Q back against the sheets, working his fingers into him. The stretch hadn’t been completely unfamiliar, but it had been a while. 

The feeling of Eliot inside him, sliding in as he desperately tried to keep his composure above Quentin, stood out in the otherwise haze of sex and endless kissing.

It was too much and not enough, but with Eliot’s arms around him, Quentin never wanted it to end.


	4. Chapter 4

Quentin woke to light streaming in through the open window.

He registered the comfortable weight next to him before he realized where he was.

“What the fuck?” a familiar voice groaned in his ear, and the previous night came flooding back.

Quentin dragging Eliot into a kiss, being interrupted by bouts of their own laughter, Eliot pressing him against the sheets.

“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!” Poppy called in a sing-song voice as she threw open the curtains to another window.

Quentin jerked out of Eliot’s embrace and pulled up the sheet in a pathetic attempt to cover himself.

“W-what are you doing here, Poppy?”

Poppy hummed to herself, way too cheery for the morning, as she continued opening the countless windows in Eliot’s room.

“We couldn’t find you in your room this morning, so Margo sent me to wake up Eliot instead.”

She paused, turning to look between Quentin, who was sitting up awkwardly in the bed, and Eliot, who was still sprawled face down and tangled among the sheets.

“I guess this explains why,” she said, as if she had just noticed where exactly Quentin was.

“Well,” Quentin cleared his throat, trying to sound just a fraction as authoritative as Eliot did in these situations, “Could you maybe, uh, give us some privacy?”

Poppy laughed. “Oh please, I’ve seen enough of Eliot’s one-night stands to not be bothered.”

She turned to them and waved her hand. “Carry on, just pretend I’m not even here. Or not, if that floats your boat.”

Quentin blushed. “That’s not—“

“Get the hell out, Poppy,” Eliot said from where his face was buried in a pillow. Even half-asleep, he managed to command a room with ease.

“Right,” Poppy said, seemingly unbothered by Eliot’s crassness, “Breakfast is on the table. Tick says you’re needed for a meeting in twenty.”

Eliot shifted onto his side with what appeared to be considerable effort. “Tell him I’ll be an hour and no sooner.”

And as quickly as she’d flitted into the room, Poppy was gone.

Quentin was awake now, fingers still holding the sheets up around his chest like an old lady clutching her pearls.

Eliot wasn’t saying anything, but he was awake. And he knew Quentin was awake. And he knew that Quentin knew that he was awake, so why wasn’t he saying anything? Was Quentin just supposed to leave? Was that the expectation that came with sleeping with the High Prince?

“Jesus, Q,” Eliot grumbled, “I can practically hear you thinking.”

Eliot rolled onto his back, into Quentin’s space on the giant bed, and grinned up at him.

Quentin’s worried vanished, immediately replaced by a warm, fuzzy, fondness. Eliot was rumpled from sleep, his normally pristine hair sticking up against his pillow and his eyelids still drooping.

Needless to say, he was gorgeous in any state, and Q might’ve been jealous if he wasn’t currently sharing a bed with him.

“What?” Eliot asked, and Quentin realized he’d been caught staring.

He grinned, unable to drag his eyes away from Eliot, and thankful he no longer had to.

Quentin kissed him, because he could, because he wanted to, because it was Eliot.

Lucky for him, Eliot seemed to have caught on sometime last night just how much Quentin loved being kissed. He grabbed him by the neck and pulled him closer, kissing him like it was the end of the world.

“What was that about?” Eliot said once they’d broken apart. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Quentin met his smirk with one of his own. “I wanted to.”

Eliot chuckled, running his hand down Quentin’s back until it rested on his waist. “And if last night was any indication, you’re very good at telling me what you want.”

Quentin blushed and swatted him. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

So Quentin kissed him again. 

Eliot ended up bringing them both off between his long fingers, Quentin biting back a cry into Eliot’s shoulder.

They were laying sticky and sated when Quentin finally built up the courage to say what had been weighing on his mind.

“What Poppy said, about this, uh, being a one-night stand,” he said, slowly, “I was hoping…”

Eliot tensed up next to him and Q immediately regretted opening his mouth. _He always did this, he always managed to read the room wrong, to go out on a limb only to have the branch break._

“Sorry,” he mumbled, moving to get out of the bed.

“Wait, Q, hold on.” Eliot grabbed his arm, and Quentin turned to look at him.

He had sat up on his silk sheets, his normally perfect hair a mess and a serious look on his face.

“I’ve never been very good at this.” 

Quentin dropped his gaze to his fidgeting hands. “You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“I don’t know what last night was to you,” Eliot said, “But I’m hoping it was more than a one-night stand.”

His hand shifted from Quentin’s arm to cup his jaw. 

“I really like you.” Eliot repeated the words he’d said last night, when he’d still had Quentin pressed into the sheets and they were too drunk off each other to think anything through.

Quentin let out a huffy laugh, biting his lip. “I like you, too.”

Eliot smiled, tugging Quentin down to join him on the bed again.

“Good.” He sighed contently, like everything was solved, like all that mattered was that Quentin liked Eliot and Eliot liked him right back. 

_What about Poppy? What about Fogg? What about the fact that he was a nobody who hadn’t even been born in Fillory and Eliot was a prince?_

_What if this was all too good to be true?_

Eliot traced the back of Quentin’s hand, rubbing gentle circles into his skin as he hummed the opening of a Bonnie Tyler song.

Quentin relaxed into the feeling, pushing down the voice in his head reminding him of all the ways this could go wrong.

He liked Eliot’s voice better, anyway.

~

Quentin left Eliot’s room ten minutes later, still buttoning his shirt and frantically scrolling through his texts.

 **HIGH Queen Margo: (8:24 a.m.):** _I need u to meet me at the front entrance by 10 to welcome the Lorians_

 **HIGH Queen Margo: (8:25 a.m.):** _Go drag El outta bed if he doesn’t have a bitch of a hangover while ur at it_

 **HIGH Queen Margo: (9:42 a.m.):** _Where tf are u?? Ur not in ur room??? I can’t believe El AND u are ditching me_

 **HIGH Queen Margo: (9:56 a.m.):** _HOLY SHIT why didn’t u just tell me u assholes were fucking. He better have treated u nice, Coldwater or I’ll chop off his dick._

 **HIGH Queen Margo: (9:57 a.m.):** _Give him a kiss for me_

“Shit,” Quentin muttered under his breath, typing out a reply as quickly as his fingers could manage.

 **Quentin: (10:42 a.m.):** _i’m omw now, is todd still giving them a tour? or have you taken them to brunch yet?_

Just as he’d hit send, another message came in.

 **Eliot ‘Swayze Stan’ Waugh: (10:42 a.m.):** _don’t stress about the lorian council, margo can handle it. n if she’s pissed tell her she’ll have to go thru me ;)_

 **Quentin: (10:43 a.m.):** _you know the emoticon winky face is the most suggestive of all the text based emotion icons_

 **Eliot ‘Swayze Stan’ Waugh: (10:43 a.m.):** _i know ;))_

Quentin was so busy staring down at his phone with a dumb grin on his face that he almost crashed right into someone.

“I am so sorry,” Quentin said, trying to sound less flustered than he actually was.

The woman he’d almost plowed over in his frantic state only smiled warmly at him. “It’s no trouble!”

She had dark hair that fell down her back in intricate braids. She was dressed like a princess in a floor length purple gown, looking like she’d just stepped out of a Disney movie.

“You must be Lady Margo’s assistant. Quentin, was it?”

She had a faint accent and his name didn’t role off her tongue as smoothly as the other words did.

“I, uh, yes?” Quentin stammered, always the poster child of eloquence.

“I’m Duchess Fen of Loria,” the girl said with a bright smile. “Eliot’s fiancé.”

It hit him like a ton of bricks. _Fiancé?_ Eliot had a fiancé. It took a moment to process. 

The man Quentin had slept with was engaged to be married? He quickly tried to push down the gut-punch feeling building in his stomach.

“I didn’t know Eliot was engaged.” 

_Nice. Great way to introduce yourself, Quentin._ He was officially at zero for two at introductions to actual royalty, and it wasn’t looking up.

If Fen was offended, she didn’t show it.

“Eliot doesn’t like to talk about it, but his father set us up when we were young,” she explained, a genuine smile on her face.

Quentin laughed nervously. “Hah, I figured.” _Great save._

Fen leaned a bit closer, whispering conspiratorially, “We’re more like siblings, honestly. He was the one who introduced me to my girlfriend, actually.”

Quentin balked at her. “I thought you said you were engaged to Eliot.”

Fen waved her hand at him, a bit like Eliot would whenever Quentin was being anxious.

“It’s not like we’d ever actually get married,” she said, her laugh light and infectious, “We’re both too gay for that. Eliot always planned on annulling the whole arrangement once he was crowned.”

Relief swept through Quentin like a tidal wave. The whole _love interest having a secret fiancé_ thing was super overdone, anyway.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.

Fen took it in her gloved one and gave it a strong shake. “The pleasure’s all mine. Margo had told me that Eliot was infatuated with her new assistant, and I can see why.”

Quentin felt his face turn bright red. “I, uh, sorry?”

Fen snickered. “You’re perfect for him, I can already tell.”

“Thanks?”

“I was actually looking to see Eliot while the others are being toured around the palace,” she said. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s showering, at the moment, actually, but—”

“You could keep me company until he’s finished.”

“Oh, sure, if that’s—”

“I can show you all the places Eliot and I used to play hide-and-seek when we were kids,” Fen said, linking Quentin’s arm with hers. “And has anyone showed you the royal knife collection yet?”

Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed. “There’s a royal knife collection?”

“Oh my Umber,” Fen gasped, “Margo really didn’t tell you? It’s one of the most extensive in the world! Fillory is known for their knifemaking, especially up in Loria.”

Quentin vaguely recalled a tab from Fillory’s Wikipedia page titled _Knifemaking,_ but he hadn’t clicked on it. As much as he enjoyed spending time with his new friends, he hadn’t really had the chance to indulge in some of the more nerdy, historic things he usually would when he traveled someplace new.

“Lead the way,” Quentin said, gesturing with his free hand.

Fen spent the next hour showing him the gallery in the East Wing, where Quentin had studiously avoided. Most of the tours were held there, and he’d wanted to steer clear of any potential paparazzi.

She also taught him the seven most lethal places to attack someone with a knife, which was a bit disorienting coming from someone who looked like she’d stepped out of a Disney animated movie.

But Fen was a force to be reckoned with, and Quentin liked her. He also definitely did not want to get on her bad side, especially since she had such easy access to all those knives.

~

The last week before the Winterfest Ball flew by in a flurry of activity and Margo barking orders at just about everyone.

Quentin ignored a text from his mom asking if he’d be coming home for Christmas, so she’d know to make up the guest room or not. Julia, Kady, and him called Julia’s mom to wish her a happy Hanukkah, and Fen demanded Todd play holiday music over the palace’s speakers. Quentin made sure she threw in Taylor Swift’s rendition of _Last Christmas_ to her playlist, just to annoy Penny.

He ended up spending a good portion of his time with Margo and Fen, working out the last-minute details of the ball. Before arriving in Fillory, he would’ve been surprised to see a royal guest working to plan a ball, but Quentin had been at Whitespire long enough now to see it as the norm. 

Besides, he liked Fen, even when her and Margo teased him relentlessly.

“The last of the decorations are being delivered tomorrow, and Eliot’s boyfriend says he’s got that covered.” Margo shot Quentin a mischievous look over her clipboard.

“And you already gave DJ Hansel his deposit?” Quentin ignored her, glaring down at the checklist in front of him and pretending to write something down.

“Benedict hand-delivered it yesterday,” Fen said, “And Eliot’s boyfriend just has to make sure he gets his gift basket.”

Margo clicked her pen with a satisfied hum. “Perfect, we wouldn’t want Q wasting any of his time he could be spending with his boyfriend.”

Fen bit back a smile. “What about those velvet ropes Tick requested?”

Margo’s lip curved into a grin. “You know who could probably help with that? Eliot’s boyfriend.”

The lead in Quentin’s pencil snapped and Fen snickered.

“I get it, El and I are together, it’s hysterical.”

“You know,” Fen said, “I was the one who settled on boyfriend.”

Margo nodded. “I thought fuckboy was a more apt descriptor.”

Quentin nearly choked on his own spit. “You guys are the worst.”

They both laughed again, and Quentin huffed, pointedly not looking at them.

Margo put a hand on his shoulder.

“You know I’m happy for the both of you,” she said, firmly. “You and El work, and he deserves someone who loves him as much as you do.”

Quentin sputtered, “I haven’t, uh, I mean, isn’t it too so—”

“Don’t be a cock,” Margo said, “I can tell you love him, because I love him too.”

Quentin had thought about protesting, but he hadn’t really wanted to. So what if he’d fallen in love? It was Eliot.

Eliot was even busier than Quentin was, sitting through meetings with the High Council about his upcoming coronation in the new year.

“They want me to make an announcement with the official date at the ball,” Eliot had told him one evening, stretched out on his bed next to Quentin. “Tick apparently brought in a professional speech-writer or something to write the damn thing.”

“Aren’t you glad people will finally stop asking you when the coronation is, though?” Quentin pressed a kiss to his collar bone and Eliot pulled him closer, so his head was resting on his chest.

Despite both their schedules being chock full, Quentin had spent every night in Eliot’s room, and then some. 

The sex was phenomenal, sure, but Quentin lived for times like these, when they were curled up together, not doing much else besides talking and exchanging lazy kisses.

Eliot sighed. “They’ll just start asking me different things, harder things.” He rubbed at his eyes and groaned in frustration.

“At least you have me to deal with the harder things,” Quentin said, teasingly.

Eliot laughed, fully and unabashed. “You are pretty good at dealing with my harder things.”

“Better than you are.”

“Hey, now.”

Quentin laughed, turning so he could kiss Eliot on the lips without restrictions.

It wasn’t all making out with Eliot and planning for the ball, however.

Poppy had tried to talk to him twice more, once by accosting him in the hallway and eagerly asking if he’d learned anything new now that Eliot and him were fucking, as she so eloquently put it.

The second time had been a series of text messages, though God only knew how she got his number.

 **[Unknown Number]: (11:21 a.m.):** _Got anything new to report, mr. Bond??_

 **[Unknown Number]: (11:33 a.m.):** _My boss is on my ass about an Eliot story so i’d appreciate it if you could hurry along your morality crisis_

 **[Unknown Number]: (11:34 a.m.):** _Oh this is Poppy btw_

 **[Unknown Number]: (12:04 p.m.):** _Maybe I should just go to Eliot and ask him directly? What do u think?_

 **Quentin: (12:05 p.m.):** _fuck off, i’m not your gossip magazine. go find another rat to do your dirty work._

Quentin had blocked her after that, but he was becoming increasingly aware that he needed to tell Eliot the truth and soon.

“I’m not sure what to do,” he admitted to Julia that afternoon.

“Is murder still off the table?”

“I think Kady’s starting to rub off on you.”

Julia drummed her fingers on the table. “Blackmail’s illegal, right? We could just tell the Fillorian police or whatever and have her arrested. Eliot would never have to know.”

Quentin shook his head. “Even if that worked, I can’t keep this from him, not forever.”

Julia’s eyebrows rose. “Forever? Am I hearing wedding bells?”

He blushed. “I’ve known Eliot for a little over a month.”

“That’s enough to know, Q,” she said, “I knew with Kady.”

The truth was, Quentin had never met someone he’d wanted to spend forever with. Not romantically, at least. Even when he’d first been infatuated with Alice, he could never see them being _forever,_ just _for a while._

His thing with Eliot was different. He was comfortable, he wanted to be around him, and they seemed to click in a way Quentin had only even done with Julia.

“Either way,” he said, running a hand down his face, “We’re back at square one.”

Julia got up from her chair and sat next to him on his bed, touching his knee. “I think you’re missing the obvious answer to all this.”

Quentin knew what she was going to say, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.

“You have to tell him.”

Quentin closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath of air. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Everything you’ve told me, about Eliot, about the both of you,” she said, “I think this is your only option.”

“I’ll quit Brakebills.” Quentin said it with an ease that had seemed impossible all those weeks ago in Fogg’s office. “And I’ll tell Eliot the truth.”

Julia pulled him into a hug. “You’re a good guy, Q, even though you don’t always realize it.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

Julia’s phone buzzed and they broke apart. She glanced down at the screen and frowned. 

“Listen, I have to go,” she said, “but I think you need to just be honest with him. Tell him everything and if he really cares about you, you can make him understand.”

Quentin gave a frustrated sigh. “You’re right, as usual.”

“I know.” Julia ruffled his hair as she headed for the door.

“Say hi to Kady for me?” Quentin asked, but Julia’s nose was buried in her phone again. She gave a little ‘uh huh’ before slipping out into the hallway.

~

“El?”

Quentin knocked on Eliot’s half-closed door, already peeking inside before he got an answer.

Eliot was sprawled on the couch, as he usually was, wearing a vest with an intricate pattern and nice slacks. It was simple compared to his usual Fillorian attire, or at least, for Eliot it was.

His face was drawn, his forehead creased with a deep line, until he saw Quentin standing in the doorway and his expression immediately brightened. The fact that Quentin could elicit such a reaction from Eliot made him giddy.

“Q, come in.” He beckoned for Quentin to join him on the couch.

Quentin settled next to him, leaning back so Eliot’s arm that was stretched across the back of the cushion brushed his neck.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of Fen lately,” Quentin said, reaching a hand up to meet Eliot’s fingers where they rested on his shoulder.

Eliot’s eyebrows rose, but he was still grinning. “Really? All good things, I hope.”

“Yeah, she reminds me of you, actually.”

Eliot scoffed. “Please, she’s a ray of fucking sunshine next to me. Next to anyone, really.”

“I’ve always liked the moon better.” Quentin leaned in a bit closer with what he hoped was a mischievous grin, linking Eliot’s hand with his and pressing a kiss to it. Despite the insecurities he’d expressed to Julia, Quentin couldn’t help but relax when he was around Eliot.

“ _Oh,_ you’re a fucking sap.” Eliot kissed his forehead anyway.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company in the rare free time they’d had this week.

As much as he didn’t want to, Quentin knew he had to tell Eliot the truth. He’d promised Julia, he’d promised himself, and the longer he put it off the worse the whole thing would be when it finally came out.

“Hey.” Quentin’s voice cracked and he quickly swallowed, sitting up from where he had slumped against Eliot’s chest. “There’s something I need to—”

Eliot’s phone buzzed suddenly, interrupting Quentin before he could get another word out.

“Shit, hold on, it’s Penny.” Eliot answered the phone and pressed it to his ear.

Quentin had sat completely upright now, giving him enough space to take the call. He could faintly hear Penny’s voice through the phone, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Okay, Jesus,” Eliot said, “I’ll check my goddamn texts. Don’t get all bent out of shape, Penny. We don’t want that stick up your ass to get too big.”

Eliot hung up and kept scrolling through his phone.

“Sorry, Q, just gimme a sec. There’s something Penny insisted I…”

He trailed off, a frown stretching across his lips. He got to his feet but didn’t move away from the couch.

“El?” Quentin looked up at him in concern, but got no response. “Eliot?”

Eliot continued to say nothing, just staring at the screen of his phone like he’d seen a ghost.

Quentin got to his feet and reached out to touch his arm, but Eliot pulled away. His eyes finally met Quentin’s, clearly holding back tears. Eliot was looking at him like he was someone he didn’t recognize.

Quentin’s stomach plummeted. _He knew._

“Quentin,” Eliot said, slowly, deliberately, “Please tell me what she wrote about you isn’t true.”

He held up his phone between them. On the screen was an article from _Hedge Mail Daily_ written by none other than Poppy Kline, with a header image of him and Eliot passed out in his bed together. The article title, in large font, said _High Prince Sleeping With NYC Tabloid Writer._

Quentin didn’t have to read it to guess what it was about.

“Fuck.” Quentin shook his head. “El, listen, I didn’t tell her anything—”

“But you knew,” Eliot snapped, tossing his phone onto the couch. “You knew she was a spy and you didn’t fucking tell us.”

“I couldn’t!” Quentin protested. “She was blackmailing me.”

“With what? The knowledge that you were a spy too?”

Quentin’s mouth clamped shut. Nothing Eliot had said was wrong.

“Was that all this was?” Eliot shouted. “Did you just come here and sleep with me to try to get information for your stupid article?”

“No,” Quentin said, vehemently, “It was never just about the article, I swear. I never planned to actually write it, not once I realized I’d...I’d fallen in love with you.”

Eliot froze, his shoulders stiffening at Quentin’s words.

“Don’t say that,” he said, voice low, “ Don’t you dare say you love me after lying to me for so long.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that,” Quentin whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not allowed to be fucking sorry,” Eliot snarled.

“It’s the only thing I can be.” Quentin looked him in the eyes, trying desperately to convey just how much he wished he could go back and undo it all. Even if it meant they’d never met, if it made Eliot happy, Quentin would take it all back.

“How can I believe anything you say?” Eliot was quieter now, his voice sounding on the edge of giving out.

He looked broken, so much like that first night Quentin had stumbled upon him after his fight with Tick. Except this time, Quentin was the one breaking him.

“I’m sorry.” Quentin said it again, this time with as much vigor as he could muster. 

“Get out.”

Quentin wanted to stay. He wanted to pull Eliot close and hold him while he cried and whisper that everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t okay, though, and Quentin didn’t deserve to do any of that. 

He’d lost that right when he’d lied to Eliot.

Quentin turned to leave, but paused in the doorway.

Eliot wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he’d crossed the room and slammed open the door to his liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of already-opened wine and took a long swig.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, one last time.

If Eliot heard him, he didn’t say anything.

Quentin moved a wedge to keep the door open a crack. He knew it wouldn’t stop Eliot from closing and locking it as soon as he left, but hopefully it would take him awhile to notice.

He sent a text to Margo once he was in the hallway.

 **Quentin: (7:52 p.m.):** _i fucked up. i’m sorry. i know that’s not enough and i know it won’t change anything. eliot’s in his room but i don’t think he should be alone._

There was no reply from her by the time he got back to his room, and still no reply after he spent an hour staring at the rain pattering against the window. There had hardly been any storms since he arrived in Fillory, but it seemed ironically bitchy of Mother Nature to break out a full-blown thunderstorm on today of all days.

He got a text from Alice but didn’t have the energy to open it.

He waited another hour, alternating between pacing his room and packing his suitcase. Quentin was surprised Penny hadn’t showed up to kick his ass by now. He wouldn’t have blamed him; he deserved it.

At eleven, Quentin finally gave up on a reply from Margo. _There was probably never going to be one,_ he realized.

He was lying on his bed for another hour and a half before he finally nodded off. His dreams were full of dinners with his friends, afternoons working with Margo, and nights with Eliot.


	5. Chapter 5

“Of all the ignorant, stupid things you could have done,” Fogg’s voice boomed through the phone.

“I know.” Quentin pressed his phone tighter to his ear.

“You had a story, a _scandal_ that could’ve saved the newspaper.”

“I know,” Quentin repeated. He hadn’t said much else during their conversation.

He heard Fogg shuffling around in what he presumed to be his office.

“Irene is furious, the entire board is furious, my job is on the line, and fucking Fuzzbeat got to the story before us. _Fuzzbeat!_ They barely qualify as a news source!”

“Brakebills barely qualifies as a news source,” Quentin said, before he could stop himself. He realized he hadn’t wanted to, though.

There was a pause. “You’re going to fix this, Mr. Coldwater.”

Quentin glanced down at the half-packed suitcase on his bed. No one had spoken to him since the story leaked yesterday afternoon, but given Eliot’s reaction, he was assuming the worst.

He wished he’d never taken this stupid job, he wished he’d just turned Fogg down that day he was sat down in his office, fidgeting in his seat.

 _He never would have met Margo or Josh or Eliot,_ his brain argued.

But so what? They would’ve been fine without him. Their lives would be perfectly fulfilled and mostly scandal free if it hadn’t been for Quentin.

_Not Eliot._

Over the phone, Fogg was still yelling, but Quentin had long since tuned him out.

“I quit,” he said.

Fogg stuttered to a stop. “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me,” Quentin said, “I quit. I’m not going to be a pawn for your gossip magazine.”

There was another pause. “You understand you’ll never get a job in journalism again, the McAllisters will be sure of it.”

“I really, really don’t care,” Quentin said, and hung up.

He stared at the screen for a moment, watching the numbers blink back at him before disappearing.

Quentin felt good, better than he had in the past few days. The anchor that had been weighing down his chest had been lifted. He never had to set foot in Brakebills again, save for maybe cleaning the shit out of his and Alice’s cubicle. He’d never felt happier to be completely and utterly unemployed.

_If only he’d done it sooner._

The Winterfest Ball was a few hours away and no one but Julia had talked to him since yesterday. _None of them were going to talk to him ever again, not after what he did._

Just when he thought he’d come to the most realistic situation, there was a knock at the door.

He opened it to reveal Margo, standing with her hands on her hips and a hard look on her face.

“Hey,” Quentin said, before he could think better of it.

Margo raised an accusing eyebrow up at him. “ _Hey?_ ”

“I’m sorry.”

Margo appraised him, smacking her lips. “That’s it?”

Quentin shrugged. “There’s not much else to say. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.” 

“Jesus Christ Superstar, Alice was right.” Margo pushed passed him and into his room.

“Wait.” Quentin frowned. “How do you know Alice?”

Margo whipped a silver case out of her pocket and pulled a cigarette and a lighter from it. Then, she collapsed onto the chair next to Q’s bed and lit it.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” He tentatively sat down on the bed across from her.

“Blame Eliot,” she said, pulling the cigarette from between her lips and letting out an angry huff of smoke. 

Quentin stared at her, noticing her sleek hair was messier than usual and her clothes were rumpled. Knowing Margo, she’d spent the night with Eliot. Quentin was glad he still had someone who could be there for him.

“Don’t look like such a kicked puppy,” Margo said, “I know El thinks it’s endearing but I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“Okay, I’m a little mad,” Margo admitted, “But only because I had to spend my evening with a weepy Eliot, which makes my cold heart hurt more than I’d ever like to admit.”

Quentin opened his mouth and shut it again. The last thing he’d wanted was Eliot crying over him.

Margo took another drag from her cigarette. “Just when I thought I was going to have to come and beat your skinny white ass, I got a call.

“From Alice.”

Margo nodded, cigarette wobbling between her lips.

“Why’d she call you?” Quentin asked. “Last time we spoke we got in an argument.”

Margo made a face that screamed _who-fucking-knows?_ “Maybe she felt bad, but whatever the reason, she told me everything.”

“What’s there to tell, Margo? I lied to you guys, about who I am, what my actual job is.” Quentin rubbed at his eyes in frustration. “I’m pretty sure what I did was breaking and entering.”

“God, Q,” Margo groaned, “Don’t be such a drama bitch. You didn’t fucking break and enter, you didn’t even lie to us that much. You told us your full name, didn’t you? Give me a little credit.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Margo let out a clearly frustrated sigh. “Listen, there’s no doubt in my mind that your feelings for Eliot were, are, genuine, am I right?”

Quentin nodded dumbly.

“You weren’t trying to hurt him. According to Alice—“ she jabbed her cigarette towards him ”—you were ready to quit your stupid newspaper job a week in. Doesn’t make you a saint, but I get why you did what you did.”

Margo’s voice grew uncharacteristically soft. “I think I know you well enough by now to know you’re a terrible liar.”

Quentin laughed nervously. “Yeah, I’m kinda surprised I made it as long as I did.”

“Julia vouched for you, too,” Margo added. “Not that her word means shit to me, I hardly know her, but I do know you, and you’re such a good person sometimes it almost makes me sick.”

Quentin leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees.

“I don’t feel like a good person right now.”

Margo gave him a small smile. “That’s how I know you are one. Sometimes good people fuck up, but they own up to it, and that takes a lot of guts, honestly.”

“You’re just being nice,” Quentin said.

Margo balked at him. “When have I ever been nice?”

Quentin grinned at her, though, and she was smiling right back.

“By the way,” Margo said, snubbing out her cigarette on the same case she’d pulled it from. “Penny escorted Poppy off palace property last night.” 

“I was kind of surprised Penny or Victoria or someone didn’t come for me last night, too.”

“You’re not Poppy, trust me,” Margo said. “She’s been a dildo in my ass for the whole year and a half’s she’s worked here. This isn’t her first venture into the dangerous world of blackmail, just her last, for the time being.”

Quentin gawked at her. “And you let her stay this long?”

“We let you.” She shot him a knowing look.

Quentin glanced at his feet sheepishly.

“Oh, grow a pair of tits, Coldwater. Eliot has been pestering me to come see you all morning.”

A lump grew in Quentin’s throat. “He what? Really?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Of course he did, the boy is fucking besotted over you. It’s kind of disgusting to watch.”

“Why didn’t he come?”

“I told him not to,” she said, like it was the most logical thing that had ever left her mouth. “And before you go all kicked puppy on me again, I told him you need to come to him.”

Quentin was on his feet before she could finish her sentence.

“Whoa, slow you roll.” Margo moved to block the exit with a pointed look. “You’re not giving Eliot an end-of-the-hallmark-movie confession in your ratty pajamas.”

Quentin opened his mouth to protest but Margo held up a hand.

“Trust me on this.” 

~

Quentin was hyper aware of how the textured wood felt against his knuckles as he knocked on Eliot’s door. He felt as though he’d swallowed a hundred, angry butterflies that were now making a mess of his stomach.

Needless to say, it was much different from the last time Quentin had knocked on Eliot’s door.

Margo had dressed him in a simple Fillorian tux she’d put together last minute but, _anything was better than those fucking Iron Man pajamas,_ as she’d said. 

She’d even put some kind of product in his hair and braided a few smaller sections before tying it back in his usual bun.

It felt strange standing at Eliot’s door dressed like a goddamn suitor. He didn’t want to be Eliot’s suitor, that’s never what he wanted. He just wanted to be Eliot’s.

It seemed like he was standing in the hallway for hours when Eliot’s tentative voice finally said: “Come in.”

Quentin had to walk through the sitting area and bedroom to find Eliot in his closet.

He was staring at himself in a floor length mirror, the kind that you only ever saw in fancy department clothing stores, adjusting his shirt. He wasn’t just wearing his usual Fillorian garb, but an intricately decorated coat that nearly swept the floor, as well.

His crown was perched on his head, settled purposefully among his slicked-back curls and making him appear every bit a prince. 

Quentin realized he’d been gawking at him and cleared his throat.

“You look good.”

Eliot’s eyes flicked to meet Quentin’s in the mirror, before shifting back to his own reflection. “I know. So do you. Margo?”

“I could never do all this all this—“ he gestured vaguely over himself ”—on my own.”

Eliot snorted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and Quentin counted it as a win.

He wished they could go back to just 24 hours ago, when they were wrapped around each other in Eliot’s bed, Quentin pressing little kisses to his neck and Eliot teasing him about his purple fuzzy socks.

Nothing was that easy, though, especially not being in love.

“Margo told me you wanted to see me,” Quentin said, cutting right to the chase.

Eliot gave a noncommittal hum.

“I know I hurt you and I’m sorry,” Quentin continued, ringing his hands. 

Apologies weren’t easy, even for someone who basically had I’m sorry as the pre-recorded voicemail message of his life. But real apologies were hard, especially when they meant something. 

“I’m not expecting you to forgive me, I honestly don’t know if you ever could, but I need you to know that loving you was never a lie.”

Quentin met Eliot’s gaze in the mirror. “Falling in love with you is the truest thing I think I’ve ever done in my entire life.”

The words settled between them, seeming to leave the air in the room thick and charged.

Eliot blinked, once, twice, and then he shook his head.

“Julia tried to talk to me, and Margo told me everything your weirdly aggressive blond co-worker told her, but even before that I knew,” he said, “I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay mad at you, even if I wanted to, which I really _really_ did, but…”

Eliot let out a heavy sigh, finally turning so he was facing Quentin instead of his reflection. “I don’t want to hear about everything you did wrong. I don’t care about that. I want you to tell me what you’d do right, this time around.”

There was a pang of hope in Quentin’s chest and he was sure it showed on his face. 

“I’d tell you everything.” The words came rushing out like a flood. “How much it worries me when you drink alone and how much I love the way you pull me close and kiss my hands like we’re an old married couple.”

Quentin dared to step closer, his gaze still trained on Eliot’s.

“I’d tell you how much I appreciate that you listen to my nerdy rants and how good it feels to lean into you when we’re sitting on the couch with everyone after dinner.”

Eliot was smiling now, soft and so familiar, Quentin felt like he was going to melt right then and there.

“I’d complain about my mom and listen to you talk about your shitty dad,” he continued, “And we would probably need to go to therapy like actual functioning adults but I’d sit on those long chairs psychiatric offices in movies have with you through it all.”

Eliot laughed despite his teary-eyed expression. He put his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, brushing his thumb against the skin below his ear.

“And I’d tell you how much I love you,” Quentin whispered, “Over and over and over until Margo’s throws her shoe at us for being too fucking sappy.”

“I think a Louboutin heel to the face would be worth it.” Eliot took Quentin’s hand in his free one, linking their fingers together.

“You think so?” It came out as a breathy whisper.

“I know so,” Eliot said, “Because you and I work, Q, and if that’s not a good enough reason to give us another try, a real try, I don’t know what is.”

Then, Eliot cupped his face, and pressed his lips to Quentin’s. It was the softest kiss he’d received in his entire life, fueled by all the emotions they’d left scattered on the floor between them.

They kissed until Quentin could hardly breathe, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Was that too easy?” Quentin asked, when they’d finally managed to break apart.

“It’s not always gonna be easy,” Eliot said, threading his fingers through Quentin’s mused hair, “But not everything in life has to be like climbing a goddamn mountain. Sometimes you get to walk along the beach.”

Quentin stared up at him. “That was surprisingly profound.”

“I know, don’t tell Margo, she’ll start to expect it.”

“It’s not always going to be like this,” Quentin said.

“I know.”

“It’ll be hard, sometimes.”

Eliot pursed his lips. “I’d hope with me it’d be more than just sometimes.”

Quentin shot him a withering look. “I’m serious.”

“And I am, too.” Eliot kissed his forehead. “Life sucks a lot of the time, but it sucks less when you’re with someone you love.”

Quentin laughed at him. “I say hard one time and you turn into a middle school boy, but you can say sucks twice in one sentence and I’m just supposed to let that slide?”

“Actually,” Eliot said, tapping Quentin on the nose, “I was expecting at least a half-assed innuendo, but clearly Margo needs to brush up on that with you.”

Quentin swatted him, and then he kissed him, because it was Eliot. 

_And they worked, didn’t they?_

~

Much to everyone’s relieved surprise, the Winterfest Ball went off without a hitch.

DJ Hansel was a hit, though he only played _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ twice, which Quentin was pretty sure was a crime. The ballroom was packed with Fillorians, dressed from head-to-toe in what Margo described as “casual dress wear” but Quentin would’ve called “honest to fuck ballgowns.”

Margo, Josh, and Fen entertained the Lorians, under the guise of diplomatic relations, but Quentin was pretty sure Fen just wanted to hang out with her girlfriend and Margo and Josh just wanted to _hang out_ with Duke Ess. Julia and Kady spent most of their time on the dance floor, and even Penny ended up rocking out to a few songs at Benedict’s insistence. 

Dozens of photographers lined the front entrance of Whitespire, taking pictures of everyone from the royals to the average Fillorian citizen. There was even a Fillorian YouTuber doing a livestream during the ball itself.

It was surreal to Quentin that he had been instrumental in making all this happen. Thanks to Margo, Eliot, and everyone else’s hard work, this year’s Winterfest Ball marked the beginning of a new age for Fillory.

Quentin spent most of his time by the food table, munching on candy cane bark and Josh’s homemade latkes. It wasn’t until Eliot and Julia pulled him out into the crowd that he finally started dancing.

“Christmas rave music isn’t exactly the best thing to slow dance to,” Eliot admitted, leaning in so they could hear each other over the bass thrumming from the speakers.

Quentin pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s waist with a sly grin on his face. “I’m sure we can make it work.”

Thankfully, DJ Hansel played more than just holiday songs, and Quentin soon found himself lost in the blaring music and the company of his friends. 

He was flailing his way through _Cotton Eyed Joe_ with Julia when he noticed Eliot had gone missing.

“Hey, Jules,” he cried, “Have you seen El?”

Julia shook her head, tapping her ear.

Quentin grabbed her arm and tried again. “Do you know where El went?”

Just then, the music stopped, and DJ Hansel tapped his microphone.

“What up my party peeps?” he shouted, and everyone around them cheered. “You’ve been a great crowd tonight, but we’re gonna take a quick break with a very big announcement from our host, High Prince Eliot!”

The crowd clapped and cheered again and someone, probably Josh, let out a loud whoop.

Eliot flung open the curtains behind the DJ booth, dramatically waving at the crowd. His hair was mused, and he was sweaty from dancing, but he looked every bit a prince.

“My adoring subjects.” He took the mic from DJ Hansel, bowing lowly and winking at the audience.

“I don’t want to be presumptuous, as the night is still young, but I think it’s safe to say this has been the best Winterfest Ball in Fillorian history.”

The crowd erupted in another round of applause and cheers, Quentin alongside them.

“Now,” Eliot continued, holding up a finger, “None of this would have been possible without the entire Whitespire staff, but especially Margo, and her _lovely_ assistant, Quentin.”

Eliot shot him an impish grin and he flushed, ducking his head as the crowd clapped for the both of them.

“Down to more serious business, though. You’re all expecting a coronation date.” Eliot’s voice lowered and the cheers petered down into murmurs.

“The High Council even wrote out this nice speech for me.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper, waved it at the audience, and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Someone very close to me did something very brave recently.” Eliot met Quentin’s eyes through the mass of party guests. “I don’t think he knows just how brave it was, but tonight, I’m going to take a page out of his metaphorical book, and speak from the heart.”

“I wasn’t the first choice for the throne,” he said, “I wasn’t even the second, but I stand here today as your future High King, prepared to make Fillory into the progressive and forward thinking country I know it can be.”

“Instead of announcing my coronation date,” Eliot continued, “I’ll be announcing my successor.”

A gasp rippled through the crowd and Quentin’s eyes widened. He hadn’t known Eliot had even been considering naming a successor, let alone making a public announcement about it.

“I know the crown has been in the Waugh family for decades,” Eliot said, “But if there’s anything I’ve learned, family can be the people you chose to love, not just ones related by blood.”

He smiled, and Quentin knew he was looking out at Fen, at Josh and Penny, at Margo.

“That’s why I’ve decided to keep the crown in my family, the family I’ve chosen.”

Eliot cleared his throat. “So it seems fitting that my successor be someone who deserves it even more than I ever have, my better half and best friend,” he paused, grinning down at Margo, “Margo Hanson.”

The crowd erupted in cheers once more as Margo gaped at him in shock. Quentin was sure he’d never seen her speechless before.

He quickly shoved his way through the celebrating spectators to get to her, dragging her up to stand on stage.

She shoved Eliot, but there were tears in her eyes. “You fucker,” she whispered. “You should have warned me.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Eliot said, smiling broadly, “Are you mad?”

“How can I be mad when you gave a speech like that?” Margo pulled him into a hug and the party guests burst into another round of applause.

Eliot mouthed a _thank you_ to Quentin over her shoulder.

Quentin shot him a crooked smile, tucking his hands into his suit pockets.

DJ Hansel started the music again, playing a remix of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas,_ and the ballroom broke out into dance once again.

As Quentin looked out over the crowd, he realized how little he’d thought of Brakebills, of his doomed relationship with Alice, of the novel he’d always planned to write but never did.

He didn’t need a novel to be content with his job. He hadn’t been living his life on the edge of another spiral into depression because he couldn’t make it work with Alice. As corny as it sounded, Quentin had needed friends.

 _And he’d gotten more than that,_ he thought as he watched Margo drag Eliot onto the dance floor.

_He’d gotten a family._

~

Quentin was packing up his room the next morning when Alice called. He dropped his half-folded shirt on the mattress and answered.

“Hey.” Alice sounded quieter, less angry than she had been the last time they’d spoken on the phone. “I saw Eliot’s speech.”

Quentin thought back to the YouTuber who’d been recording half the night.

“It’s all over the internet,” she added, “I think it’s trending.”

“I didn’t know he was gonna go off script,” Quentin admitted, a smile playing on his lips. “The High Council wasn’t too thrilled but the Fillorians adored it.”

“The whole world, too,” Alice added.

Her tone was stilted, like she was unsure if she should have called.

“I’m glad I got a chance to talk to you,” Quentin said, “I wanted to thank you for calling Margo. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I really did.” Alice sighed, grainy through the phone. “When the story came out, Fogg was furious, and I knew I couldn’t let you take the fall for all of that, not after what you said to me about your feelings for Eliot.”

“I thought you were mad.”

“I was,” Alice admitted, “I was furious, because I knew if I’d gotten the Fillory story like I wanted, I would’ve gone there and published everything I learned without hesitating.”

“I was going to write the article too. You shouldn’t make it seem like I’m morally superior.”

Alice snorted. “You never would’ve gone through with it. You’re too nice, Q.”

That’s always what people called him as a kid. Quentin was the quiet one, the nice one, the adjective that everyone used when they had nothing else. As he got older, though, he’d started to realize how rare of a trait nice actually was.

“Wasn’t the Fillory story everything you wanted?” Quentin asked.

“No, I don’t think it was.” There was a pause before Alice spoke again. “I just didn’t realize it. I want my writing to help people, not hurt them.”

It was the same conclusion Julia had come to went she’d left Brakebills, although perhaps for different reasons. Either way, Quentin was glad Alice had gone through a similar breakthrough.

“I’m sorry, Q.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to be sorry. Not everything in the world is your fault, even though it might feel that way sometimes.”

Quentin knew she was right; Alice was like Julia in that way.

“I turned in my notice yesterday,” Alice said.

“You what?”

“I quit Brakebills.” Alice cleared her throat. “Fogg wasn’t happy, but he’s got bigger fish to fry right now with so many of his backers dropping out.”

“With your skill, I’m sure you’ll find another job in no time.”

Alice hummed through the phone. “I’ve actually already got one lined up in, uh, in Fillory.”

“Oh.”

“Are you upset?” Alice asked after a long pause. “Not that you really have any right to be but—”

“No, God, of course not.” Quentin ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not upset at all, actually.”

“Really?”

Quentin thought he would be, but he wasn’t. Despite all the ups and downs Alice and him had gone through over the years, she was his friend, and he was happy for her. 

“Really,” Quentin assured her. “You’ll love it here, actually. And I can introduce you to everyone, maybe show you around the palace.”

Quentin could hear her smile through the phone. “I’d like that.”

“What’s the job?” Quentin leaned back on his bed, his shoulders relaxing into the pillow.

“It’s called the Library of Fillory,” Alice said, “It’s a Fillorian archiving website dedicated to preserving ancient and modern works. They recently went through a change in management and the new owner actually contacted me personally about the job.”

Alice told him all about the Library and Zelda, the woman who’d offered her the position. Quentin hadn’t heard her this excited about her work in ages. 

Truthfully, Quentin was glad she’d be coming to Fillory. He wanted her to meet the people who’d grown to be his family these past two months. Whether he’d realized it before or not, Alice was part of that family.

_Not to mention her and Margo were sure to become an absolute terror together._

Quentin made a mental note to warn Josh before he forgot.

~

“Was the limo really necessary?”

Eliot gawked at Quentin. “The future High King of Fillory’s boyfriend is leaving for the Big Apple, of course the limo was _absolutely_ necessary.”

“When do we ever use this thing anyway?” Josh was feeling underneath his seat, a concentrated expression on his face, until he found the bottle of champagne he’d apparently been looking for.

“We’re only gone for four days,” Quentin said.

Julia and him were off to New York to pack up Quentin’s apartment and clear out his office at the Brakebills Inquirer. Originally, Kady and Eliot were going to drop them off at the airport, but Margo had insisted on coming along, which meant Josh and Fen wanted to come too, and soon Penny had roped himself in for the ride as well, under the guise of being “extra security” for the prince.

Kady leaned over and linked her fingers with Julia’s. “Four days is way too long.”

Eliot nodded in agreement. “I second that.”

Josh had found the champagne flutes and, with Fen holding the glasses, had begun pouring out drinks for everyone.

Julia shifted a bit closer to Quentin on the cushioned seat.

“I know you said you’d be content without a novel,” she said, her voice low as the others continued chatting around them, “But I don’t think you should give up on that dream just yet.”

“I’m not giving up on it,” Quentin said firmly, “I’m just not using it as an excuse anymore. I don’t want to be _Quentin the Aspiring Novelist._ I just want to be Quentin.”

Julia squeezed his hand. “I’m happy for you.”

Quentin smiled at her.

“Besides,” she said, leaning back against Kady, “You could probably write an entire series based on Fillory alone.”

Quentin chuckled. “My life _has_ felt like a movie these past two months.”

“A fucking good movie, I hope,” Margo chimed in, the others finally taking notice of Quentin and Julia’s conversation.

“You would guarantee us an R rating,” Quentin said.

“It would definitely be a dramedy after what you two went through.” Julia gestured between Eliot and Quentin.

“You know, Bambi,” Eliot said, slipping his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, “You could’ve saved us a lot of grief if you’d just told us Q’s big secret from day one.”

Quentin glanced between Eliot and Margo, a frown creasing his lips. “What do you mean?”

Margo took a sip of her champagne, waving him off. “I knew you weren’t my assistant right away.”

Quentin blinked at her. “You did? How?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “You didn’t think I knew the name of the guy they hired to follow me around all day?”

“We do have Google in Fillory, you know,” Penny added, much to Quentin’s chagrin.

“And Google you I did,” Margo said, with the pride of someone winning an Olympic medal, “Found out you worked for a newspaper, learned about your old friend Julia, and decided to give her a call.”

Quentin balked, whipping around to gap at Julia. “You knew about this?”

Julia held up her hands in defense. “All I knew was that a hot prince was into you and Margo wanted to set you guys up. I didn’t know more than that, I swear.”

“Betrayed by your best friend,” Josh said, shaking his head. “That’s harsh.”

“Oh, I don’t think the outcome’s that bleak,” Eliot said, planting a kiss to Quentin’s temple.

“How are you so unbothered by this?” Quentin asked.

Eliot shrugged, taking a sip from his champagne flute. “Margo conspires against me on a regular basis.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Quentin said, glancing around the limo, “Everyone except El and I knew that I wasn’t really Margo’s assistant?”

Margo, Josh, Penny, and Fen all looked at each other.

“For the most part, yeah, we all suspected,” Penny said, “You’re not exactly a great liar.”

“But, hey,” Josh chimed in, gesturing between Quentin and Eliot. “It all worked out in the end, right?”

“Barely!” Quentin said.

“Hush, Q.” Eliot patted his hair, pulling him closer so Quentin’s head was resting on his shoulder. “They’re just jealous we got a classic modern fairytale romance and they didn’t.”

Penny made a gagging noise while Fen let out an _aww._

The conversation quickly devolved from there, with Julia and Josh arguing over what they should make a toast to.

“You know,” Eliot said into Quentin’s ear, low enough so the others couldn’t hear him, “I’m glad Brakebills sent a spy after me.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “You like being the center of gossip magazine intrigue?”

“More like I appreciate that they had the decency to send me a cute one.” Eliot hummed into Quentin’s hair.

Quentin tugged at Eliot’s collar and yanked him into a kiss. 

It was a short one, lest Penny kick him in the shins for PDA, but it didn’t matter.

Quentin Coldwater was seated next to Eliot Waugh, his head on Eliot’s shoulder and their legs pressed together in a limo filled with their friends, _their family._ Quentin relaxed in his seat, running his fingers along the pattern of Eliot’s pants.

_He was happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had so much fun writing this and it kind of kicked my ass in some parts but god, i really enjoyed it and i'm so glad you guys get to enjoy it too!! if you haven't already, be sure to check out my magicians blog [lovelyquentin](https://lovelyquentin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and the amazing artist mel at [tah-fcking-dah](https://tah-fcking-dah.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> shoutout to all the queliot fans out there still creating and consuming new works for these boys, it's the least they deserve <33


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